The Strangest Things
by hiholly123
Summary: Sherlock and John investigate a woman's strange death, the madman breaking into the mortuary to see her body, and the shoeprints of a mysteriously disappearing Jim Moriarty at her bedside. The Doctor investigates a woman's not-so-strange death (by his standards), a worrying prophecy, and his arrival in a brand new universe. *Third in The Crossover Collection series*
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all, and welcome!**

**For those of you who are new to this series, I would like to say that this story will eventually become a multi-fandom crossover, as the two crossovers before this have done. The series this is part of is called the Crossover Collection.**

**For those of you returning, welcome back!**

**And to everyone, I hope you enjoy.**

**This story takes place after the first story in this series, Only the Beginning, and after The Wedding of River Song for the Doctor, and after The Hounds of Baskerville for John and Sherlock.**

**I may change the title later. If you have any ideas, feel free to drop them in the reviews.**

**Also, NaNoWriMo went fabulously, and I won on my first year! Anyone else who participated, good on you! I hope you did well! :D**

* * *

John Watson, when he arrived at 221B Baker Street, the flat he shared with one Sherlock Holmes, was not pleased.

"Again," he grumbled as he trudged into the flat lugging groceries. "Again, I am the one to do the shopping. You can do it next time." He jabbed an accusing finger in the direction of his flatmate, who was currently slouching in his usual chair and pouting faintly. "I don't care if you have a bloody terminal illness - next week you are picking it up." He put away the things he'd bought into their rightful places and then dropped angrily into his usual armchair.

"More troubles with the machinary, John?" Sherlock Holmes drawled, staring boredly at the ceiling.

John's upper lip curled with contempt. "Yes. Those things are unreliable as hell."

Sherlock might have smirked, further infuriating his only friend. "Of course."

John decided to give up on being angry, rubbing his face tiredly. "I have to be at the surgery in an hour, Sherlock. Do you think you can handle yourself?"

His flatmate eyed him with a hint of annoyance.

"Oh, fine," John sighed, and stood again.

"No, you're staying home tonight," Sherlock said, and John stopped in mid-step. "Lestrade said he might have a case for us soon."

"No," John argued incredulously. "I'm not giving up pay to wander around London at night with you Sherlock. My job is the only reason we've got enough money to keep this dump." He waved an arm at the mess that was their flat.

Sherlock mumbled something in the defense of the place, but it wasn't quite loud enough for John to hear. Louder, he said, "We've got enough money."

John rolled his eyes. "Not really." He turned and started for his room. He felt a little bad about calling their flat a dump, because he did in fact like it, but Sherlock kept it so messy that you could hardly see the floor most of the time; especially when he had a case. He didn't now, so John had no idea why the place was so messy, but who was he to predict the behaviors of Sherlock Holmes? Whatever was going on, be it the possible looming case or just simply laziness, John hoped it wouldn't last too long. As much as he had to admit their adventures were exciting, and he wouldn't die if the flat was a bit trashy, he could do with a bit of normality and cleanliness for the time being. He had to earn a living after all, and the ideal conditions for that were clean surroundings. Sherlock, unfortunately, didn't feel the same way, and actually seemed to do his best work when he didn't bother with anything else at all, and things were strewn all over the floor and the bookshelves and the furniture, say nothing about the state of himself.

When he'd donned his scrubs, John came back out into the main room to find Sherlock impatiently rifling through files in the same position he'd been in earlier, although he looked plenty more excited. "Yes," the man was saying, "we've got to go immediately. John, get your coat. We're headed off to a crime scene. Lestrade just called."

John sighed and held off his anger for a moment. "Sherlock, I've got work. I can't call in sick again, not now. Let me be for once."

"No," his flatmate said, and tossed him his coat before he could get in another protest. The consulting detective paused on John's scrubs for a moment. "And get into some regular clothes, would you?" John opened his mouth, but he waved it off with a, "Fine, never mind that. Come on." Then, while tying his scarf, the curly-haired man disappeared out the door.

"I hate him," John growled, but followed him into the street, cursing himself the entire time. He really couldn't resist excitement, could he? Even if it threatened his job. "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him."

Sherlock was waving down a taxi outside, while John dialed the surgery and, once again, called in sick. "Are you sure you haven't caught something, Dr. Watson?" the receptionist asked, with little real concern and more suspicion. "You've been sick an awful lot lately."

"I don't expect it's anything serious," John said. "I'll be fine tomorrow. See you then." He hung up as quickly as possible and tucked his phone away as they were climbing into the cab. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock briskly gave the address to the driver, and they sped off.

The scene of the crime was located in London, and in fact not terribly far away from their flat. It was a building of flats similar to their own, the only real notable difference being the police tape sealing the place off. As they exited the cab, John looked up at the flats and felt a little sympathetic towards those that lived there. Their lives would be in a scramble until Sherlock figured out the case. Shaking his head a little, he followed the consulting detective to the tape, where one DI Lestrade awaited them.

"Sherlock, John," he greeted. His face was lined with stress, and he could only manage a tired smile which almost instantly fell when his eyes locked onto Sherlock's. "Come inside," he beckoned, and led them in, leaving the police cars outside behind.

"So what happened, exactly?" John wondered as they started up the stairs. It was eerily familiar to his and Sherlock's first case together. Hopefully this one would be lacking murderous cabbie drivers and texting said murderous cabbie drivers, though.

Sherlock looked around intently as Lestrade told them the tale. "Mrs. Berkely next door heard a scream earlier tonight while she was in her sitting room. She came over immediately to find her neighbor, Whitney Kyle, dead on her bed, with blood coming out of her mouth." There was a grim look on the Detective Inspector's face as he opened the door for them.

They came out into a very mundane sitting room, which was cozy but lacking in much personalization. There were two boring armchairs around an electronic fire which was still blazing and warming the officers nearby it. An astounding lack of pictures decorated the wall, and the paint was beige.

"Well, she seems like a very interesting woman," John murmured, and thought he saw Sherlock smirk.

"Moved in recently," the man said, "but yes, John, you're right, she was very bland and nondescript." He abruptly started upstairs. "I think we'll find more clues where she was found, yes?" Lestrade followed them up, frowning in concentration.

Her bedroom was just as boring, with cream-colored walls and a completely white bed. Her bedside tables were bare besides an alarm clock on one and a lamp on each.

The woman herself was lying on the bed looking like she had been sitting up before she'd died. Her brown eyes were glazed and dead, as expected, and the outfit she wore reflected her boring tastes. A trickle of blood ran from her mouth. John walked over to examine her more thoroughly.

"Anything?" Lestrade asked after Sherlock had finished pacing the room and John had finished his examination.

"She doesn't have any wounds," John said. "There's nothing else it could be but some kind of internal injury. Have you looked at her medical records?"

"She was perfectly healthy as of her last appointment," Lestrade informed the two. "Sherlock, do you have anything interesting for us yet?" The poor man sounded exhausted, John noticed with sympathy. Maybe he'd invite the DI out for a pint after this ordeal was over. The man sure looked like he could use it.

Sherlock glanced around the room once more. "John is right," he began, "it was an internal injury that killed her." He swiftly checked the body over. "Yes." He then peered at the spot directly beside the bed. "The faint imprint of shoes," he declared, flattening himself to the floor to get a closer look. His coat spread over him like a sort of blanket as he did so. Every line of him screamed excitement. "You didn't notice this before? How stupid of you. Clearly expensive shoes, not new but well-kept. There was someone in the room with her before she died, but there are no footprints leading out of the room."

"Or into it," John said, knowing as soon as the words had come out of his mouth that it was a stupid thing to say.

"There were imprints of the same shoe on the welcome mat," Sherlock said dismissively. "You're all so dull. It's depressing. He couldn't have just _appeared_ here." He jumped back to his feet and spun around the room. His eyes were alight as he again looked everything over. "The man she was speaking to couldn't have gotten out the window, someone would have noticed. And I doubt he'd want to ruin those expensive shoes of his, so. Where is he?"

Aggravation laced Lestrade's voice as he demanded, "How do you know he was speaking to her? I'm guessing you know it's a man because of the shoe, not questioning that, but what if he was the one who killed her? He could have given her something."

"No," Sherlock argued. "He fits into this somehow, but he's not her killer. Somehow I expect he was here to get rid of her, though. She worked for him." He hopped onto the bed, disregarding the corpse and ignoring John and Lestrade's simultaneous grimaces. Then he jumped down, almost sending Whitney's body tumbling to the floor to the rest of the room's horror, and pronounced, "Moriarty."

"What?" John gaped, baffled. "Why would you think he'd be-"

"_Because_ John, look. Her entire flat is undecorated and nondescript. There's nothing notable about her or her living spaces. She's one of his agents."

"Wouldn't she try to blend in, though?" Lestrade asked. "This Moriarty is some criminal mastermind, right? You've told me some things about him before. But don't agents usually try to blend in? That would involve getting interests, even if they were fake ones."

Sherlock shook his head furiously. "You're all idiots! It doesn't necessarily. The idea is to blend, yes, but the easiest way to do that is to hardly exist at all. The people who lived near her knew she existed, the Berkely woman certainly did, if she had another job, her co-workers knew she existed. But did they know her? No. I'm sure she managed to put up enough of a front to convince them not to get too close to her."

"You think she was that clever?" John said.

"She was an agent of Moriarty's," Sherlock snapped, "she'd have to have been clever! But she messed up on something. She did something wrong on a job, or betrayed his trust, and so he came to get her, only to have her die in front of him."

There was a long pause, pregnant with racing thoughts and suspicions and worries. "Then how did he get out?" John said. "He's not still here, he can't be."

"No," Sherlock agreed, "he's not here. Somehow he's escaped." He indulged in a little laugh, slightly mad. "Mastermind indeed. But we'll find him."

"Right," Lestrade announced. "I'll inform my team. You two can go back to Baker Street now, if you want. We'll call you up if we find anything else. See if you can turn up anything yourself, Sherlock. But don't-"

"Yes, whatever," the consulting detective dismissed, waving the DI out the door. "John, we're going back to the flat."

John held back a sigh. "Why?"

"I need to do research." The man looked almost feral, the smile on his face a devious one.

"Fine, you do that, but I have to get to work. I can just say I was feeling better. God knows we need the money."

"Yes, I no longer require you. Come back quickly though, I might need to bounce some ideas off of you later on." Without a goodbye, the man sauntered out the door. John raced after him only to find him getting in a cab. Sherlock didn't even wave as it drove away.

Donovan watched the scene, with a slightly condescending look on her face. John almost expected her to say something cruel, but for once she kept silent.

John huffed, and hailed his own cab, ordering the cabbie to the surgery. Hopefully Sherlock wouldn't call in the middle of an operation.

Again.

* * *

Being dead was not easy, but the Doctor was managing surprisingly well.

To most, being dead would involve, well, death. Sitting in a coffin, or in the form of a pile of ashes, not breathing or moving or seeing or being aware. But for the Doctor - who wasn't _actually_ dead, obviously - it was more like tip-toeing around people you'd seen before you'd died, or pretending to be earlier on in your timeline for their sake.

He was just pretending to be dead, because he was supposed to be. For a while, at least.

The things he missed most about being so-called alive, though, were these: 1. the Ponds, and 2. the freedom to move around without lying. Well, lying more than usual, at any rate.

The last of these he was missing the most, though, currently, as he prowled through the dark of night in London. Earth, of course, in the 21st century. Where else would he end up but there. Of course.

His last incident in this time period had been not extremely long ago. However, it had been in America. In New York City, to be exact, with Cybermen, a man called West, and the superhero team known as the Avengers.

And in another universe entirely.

It had been a series of strange and worrying events that had led him to this new universe. First, his death, which he'd been expecting, but that didn't make it any easier. Second, the adventure he'd gone on on the planet of Ruzi Major, where he'd gotten an odd prophecy, fortunately one that was different than the prophecy leading to the end of his tenth life. One that read - _The gathering will mean war._ The third event was when he'd been pondering these two earlier events in the library, when suddenly the ship had shuddered violently, and he'd stumbled to the TARDIS console room, which was where he'd found himself doing the actual plummeting into another universe. Again.

And so here he was, trudging on. Something or another had brought him here, and he needed to figure out what it was, and if it had anything to do with the strange prophecy.

_The gathering will mean war_, he mused. If only he could figure out what that meant.

He was still considering it when a man slammed into him, almost knocking him off of his feet. He reeled back and blinked at the curly-haired figure dressed in dark clothing and a striped blue scarf standing in front of him and looking miffed.

"Sorry," the Doctor instantly said. "I wasn't paying much attention, I'm afraid." He waved his hand in dismissal, trying not to be too unsettled by the man's bright blue eyes, which were flitting over him in a calculating way that he thought he didn't like. To ease the tension, he stuck out a friendly hand and said, "I'm the Doctor, by the way. And you?"

The man met his eyes at last, and the Doctor absorbed the cruel intelligence present in his gaze with awe. Humans never ceased to amaze him. "Sherlock Holmes."

"What a name," the Doctor remarked, steadying himself a bit further and lowering his hand when the man gave no sign of taking it. "Marvelous."

"Of course," the man called Sherlock said, sounding as if his patience was being strained. "Excuse me," he continued curtly, and nearly shoved past the Doctor, his brow furrowed in thought.

He didn't turn back, and the Doctor moved on.

* * *

**So that's that. Remember, reviews = gold. Free gold that can be given at no cost to you. In fact, it might even improve the story, which will be good for you if you intend to read it.**

**Please tell me what you think, anyway, and what you think could be better or different. I like opinions! Opinions are good. :)**

**The next chapter will be posted soon, hopefully. I'm thinking perhaps Wednesday.**

**And if anyone wants more information on the Crossover Collection, see my profile or PM me. Also, check out the two stories preceeding this one; Only the Beginning, a Doctor Who/Avengers crossover, and Not Another Apocalypse, a Percy Jackson/Kane Chronicles crossover, if you like. :)**

**Thank you, and review, review, review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Amazingly, I managed to get this up in time.**

**I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The Doctor had no luck discovering what it was he was supposed to be doing there for a couple of horrible, agonizingly slow days.

He spent a lot of his time in the TARDIS, doing repair work and trying to coax her into taking them both back to their own universe, but she completely ignored him whenever he brought it up, and sent out an air of distress that told him that she couldn't.

Another place of refuge was the library, where he liked to drape himself over the different armchairs and tables and read the seemingly endless amount of books available to him. He found himself in stranger and stranger positions as time passed, and he became more restless.

He broke into these reading or repair sessions to pop out of the ship and buy a newspaper, always hoping to find something interesting going on. It wasn't until well into the second day, nearly nightfall, when he finally discovered something interesting.

_WOMAN MYSTERIOUSLY DIES OF UNKNOWN CAUSES,_ the front page blared, the obnoxiously large letters probably visible from the other side of the road. However, the Doctor's interest was peaked now, and he found a seat at a nearby cafe to flip through the paper more throroughly.

It appeared that, at last, something that required his attention was happening. He noted where the woman's body was being stored, and also the time of her funeral; in two days. He would have to investigate her death further before then, in order to gather all of the required information.

And even if this wasn't one of his usual adventures, what with its lack of spaceships, malicious villains that needed stopping, and, unfortunately, companions, it was something to occupy himself with for the moment, at least. He would probably be better able to come up with a way to get back to his universe by keeping his mind off of the issue for a bit, anyway. And who knew, maybe this would turn out like a typical day in the life of the Doctor. You never could tell, in a new universe.

* * *

When night fell a few hours later, the Doctor slipped once again out of the TARDIS and made his way to St. Bart's Hospital, which was now the home of the woman who had been killed, at least until she was moved to the ground.

He wandered toward it, doing his best to appear like he was uninterested, maybe only there for business. He made sure his psychic paper was handy. There would probably be someone that would try to stop him.

To his surprise, no one did. There were very few people around at this time of night, and the ones that did pass him didn't question him. They all looked tired and stressed. He supposed they didn't want to bother with a visitor at the moment. Maybe they hadn't even noticed him; he'd been trying to keep to the shadows somewhat.

That thought was banished when a nurse spotted him at last, seeming more awake than her co-workers, and strode over to him. "Hello, sir," she said in a brisk London accent. "What are you doing here?"

He smoothly pulled out the psychic paper and showed it to her. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm just here to have a look around," the Doctor told her, smiling patiently. "I'm sure everything's in order, but I've got to, you see. Just taking a peek around here, you understand."

"You're an inspector," she said flatly. She didn't look like she believed him, so he concentrated harder on the paper.

"Yes," he replied, still grinning. He tried to keep it a bit less mad than his usual smile, but he was afraid, when she stared, that he'd failed. "I'm almost done with this hall, actually, so if you could just let me by, I can finish up and be on my way. I've seen nearly everything else in the building, so I'll be done in just a moment. Then I'll be out of your hair." He tucked the small wallet back into his pocket, struggling not to fidget too much.

She squinted at him, still obviously suspicious, but slowly nodded. "Fine."

He beamed. "Wonderful! Don't worry, I'll be gone soon enough!" And before she could say another word, he rushed away, doing his best to look inspector-like as he headed to the mortuary area.

The door to the morgue was locked, but with a buzz of the sonic screwdriver, that little problem was fixed, and the Doctor stepped inside, closing the door behind him and leaving it unlocked for a faster exit, if need be.

So far, things had been going well. However, now was the tricky bit. He had to find where the woman's body was at, somewhere in one of the many racks of cold corpses. Making a face, he pulled open the first slot and unzipped the bag slightly. His nose wrinkled, and he had to hold back a gag at the potent smell of death as he rezipped it and slid the rack back into place. He'd had far too much experience with that smell, but that made it no less disgusting, and he was far from thrilled to dig through the plentiful selection of bodies.

"Oh, there you are," he whispered when he finally found the woman. Her dead face was still and clammy, her eyes closed almost like she was sleeping. He recognized her from her picture in the paper; even now, she was beautiful. Maybe not the prettiest of women, but certainly one men would turn to look at. She had dark skin, appeared to be of a mixed-race family, and her black hair looked to have once been lush and full. Her pale lips were slightly parted in death, her face slack and peaceful. The Doctor felt a stab of pain for the loss of life, but pushed it back for the moment to pull her body out.

"Sorry," he muttered when the body bag was fully open. He treated the corpse with the upmost respect as he gathered the tools he would need, and nodded with a hint of sorrow at the dead woman as he prepared to cut into her.

He'd never been one for autopsies - it was a gruesome and disgusting thing to do, in his opinion, although in finding murderers and avenging dead humans, it could be useful. Which was what his purpose here was, he reminded himself as he readied the scalpal. To find out what had been responsible for this woman's death, whether it be an alien or simply a cruel human being, and punish the creature accordingly. He suspected it would be the former kind of killer, seeing as he was involved.

The Doctor snapped on a pair of latex gloves and straightened his bowtie, then picked up the scalpal again and held it close to the woman's skin.

He cleared his throat and breathed through his mouth as best he could as the scalpal cut into the flesh of her torso and drew a clean line. He swallowed hard as he set the tool aside. Now would be the really disgusting bit. Oh, God help him.

He was just reaching in to pry open the incision when the door banged open and police officers flooded into the room. He was very conscious of his fingers nearly inside the cut on the body, and of all the eyes and guns trained on him.

"You're under arrest," someone snapped.

Slowly, the Doctor lifted his hands off of the corpse and removed the gloves, placing them on the tray beside him. He then raised his hands in surrender, and the officers rushed over and slapped cuffs on him far too quickly. He hardly even had time to struggle against them, which was his first instinct.

_I hate being a prisoner,_ he thought in faint dismay as he was roughly pushed into the police car and read his rights. _It always ends badly. Hopefully this won't last too long._

The car door slammed in his face.

* * *

A phone rang, loud and startling in the otherwise mostly silent flat, as John pecked away on his laptop and Sherlock quietly recorded the data from his previous experiment. However, they both looked up, and Sherlock pulled the ringing mobile from his jacket pocket.

"Yes, hello Lestrade." Then his tone turned curious and excited. "What? Well, that is interesting. I suppose you want us to come in and talk to him. Obviously. We'll be there immediately." He hung up and tucked the phone away again, standing and grabbing his scarf. "John, we're going."

The army doctor watched as his friend pulled his coat on, retrieving his own at a much slower pace. "What did Lestrade want?"

"A man broke into the mortuary last night," the consulting detective announced, and then waved his arms in vague frustration. "Hurry up."

John sighed, but picked up the pace all the same, and was soon being dragged out the door by his flatmate. "Sherlock-"

"I need to think," the man interrupted, his eyes full of a familiar concentration. John stifled another sigh, and resigned himself to not speaking as Sherlock hailed a taxi and they climbed inside.

"Scotland Yard," Sherlock instructed the cabbie, and they were off.

The ride was silent, as it usually was when Sherlock was "thinking." The cabbie must have sensed the tension, because he didn't speak throughout the journey, only opening his mouth to ask for money when John was clambering out of the cab. Sherlock had already headed toward the front doors, so John sighed for the third time and paid before following his detective friend in.

Lestrade was waiting for them in his office, his hands folded and his brow furrowed. He motioned for them to sit before he spoke. "I've already told Sherlock this," he began, mostly looking at John, "but a man broke into St. Bart's morgue last night. He was found with the body of the woman who's murder we're still investigating."

John frowned. "That's strange. Do you think he somehow killed her? I mean, it was an internal injury, but all the same..."

Lestrade shrugged helplessly. "We haven't done the autopsy yet, but we're getting on it now. We'll have results then. For now, I want you two to go in and talk to him. We've done some basic interrogation, but I'd like Sherlock to have a go." He nodded to the consulting detective, who straightened slightly in his chair with hidden excitement.

"Of course," Sherlock said breezily. "Take us to where he is and we'll begin immediately."

The DI nodded and got to his feet, starting out the door and down the hall.

* * *

The door opened for the third time, while the Doctor had his back turned to it, staring at the wall to occupy himself. There wasn't much to look at; just cement, a slightly uneven gray paint job, and dirt, but it was something to do.

He spun around in his chair, however, when the footsteps sounded - two sets, he noticed.

To his surprise, he came face-to-face with the man he'd bumped into on the street when he'd first arrived. He was accompanied by a shorter man who, judging from the way he walked and held himself, was a military man. Interesting.

"Hello!" the Doctor exclaimed. "Fancy seeing you here. It's a small world, I suppose." The man was watching him carefully. His partner looked confused. "Sherlock Holmes, wasn't it?"

"Wait, where have you seen each other before?" the military man demanded.

"He crashed into me on my way back from the crime scene," Mr. Holmes drawled, eyeing the Doctor intently.

"Oi," the Time Lord protested, "I crashed into you? You were just as responsible for it as me. If you were paying any more attention than I was, you would have moved!"

"Let's move on," the man said briskly, striding over to stand just in front of the Doctor, casting what was probably supposed to be an intimidating shadow over him. But the alien remained unfazed. "Why did you break into the morgue and try to cut open a body?"

The Doctor shrugged. Obviously he couldn't tell the truth. The man was clearly smart, and if he was very intent he could probably figure it out, but the Doctor didn't intend to give anything away readily. "Sometimes I do that sort of thing," he said dismissively. "You know, break into places, cut into things. Sometimes I happen to cut into bodies." He made a face. "Don't usually do that, though, it's a bit morbid."

Sherlock Holmes inspected him, but he was appropriately discreet about it. The Doctor was impressed, especially when he declared, "You're not entirely lying. Care to tell me anything else? If you don't, I'll be forced to make deductions myself." He seemed incredibly amused by this, although none of it showed on his face, which remained passive and only vaguely excited.

"It was interesting, that's all," the Doctor allowed. "I seem to be attracted to things like mysterious deaths. Don't often attempt autopsies, though - it's not really my expertise."

"Then what kind of Doctor are you?" Holmes asked promptly. His partner nodded slightly at this question, clearly wondering the same thing.

"Oh, I dabble. Cheese-making, physics, archeology - actually no, sorry, that's someone else." He smiled vaguely at the thought of River. "Not medicine, though, certainly not." He grinned.

"And are you going to give me a name besides just 'the Doctor'? Bit vague, don't you think?" Now he was making fun of him. The Doctor fought back his grin.

"Not at all," he breezed. "Just the Doctor, really. I'm assuming my record hasn't come up on any of your computers. Ran a search yet? Might be interesting." Now he couldn't help but smile.

"Really?" Holmes drawled. "I suppose we'll check into that. But no matter. I don't need you to tell me anything to solve the case. Well, hardly anything, anyway."

Now the Doctor was curious. "Are you a mind reader? That would be spectacular, to be honest. I might have to take you along with me, if you were a mind reader."

"I don't go anywhere without my blogger," Holmes said, dipping his head toward the military man, who frowned in annoyance.

"He's welcome to come," the Doctor beamed. Not that he _really_ intended to bring the man travelling with him, although he was aching for company quite often now.

"And no," Sherlock continued, ignoring the last comment, "I'm not a mind reader, nothing so ridiculous. I'm simply an observer, if you will."

The Doctor grinned. "Well, you're a detective, aren't you? It's in your job description."

"I don't work for the police," the man said briskly, actually seeming somewhat offended. "I do the jobs I want, and this case, and you, have interested me. So, tell me what you were doing in the morgue, or I'll simply tell you myself."

The Time Lord spread his hands, deciding that he much preferred being handcuffed to the table, compared to being just handcuffed to himself. Sure, turning in his seat had been a bit painful with the cuff attatched to the table, but at least he could gesture better this way. "Go ahead." It was too bad the table legs were bolted to the floor - the only escape option, really would be to lift up the table and slip the cuffs off. Of course it couldn't be _that _easy. Humans they might be, but they weren't stupid.

Holmes straightened, his eyes bright with interest and a bit of malice, and then he bent over to get eye-to-eye with the Doctor. "You're used to getting into where you want whenever you want," the detective began rattling off, "without question, as evidenced by the woman who tried to stop you. She said you seemed surprised that she'd put up any resistance at all, so that's obvious. You often have a partner by your side, also, judging by the way you occasionally look over like you're going to speak to someone before catching yourself, and despite what you say and how you act you're incredibly smart, allowing people to underestimate you. You don't like death, but you don't fear it, either, meaning that you're used to the people around you dying, so clearly you have a dangerous job, if you have one at all, which I doubt from the lack of money found in your pockets. Anyone with a steady, well-paying job has some sort of currency on him at all times. So you bring these deaths upon yourself, or you spend your time with the dying, even though it is clearly distasteful to you. The first assumption would be that you're homeless, but your clothes are far too clean. Not eliminating the possibility, of course." He clearly wasn't done, but the Doctor wasn't about to let him get any further.

"You're brilliant," he started, but Sherlock plowed onward, ignoring his words.

"You're used to moving around as well, and with all the trinkets we've found in your pockets from different parts of the world, you're clearly a traveler, probably travelled most of your life, correct? You also call yourself 'Doctor,' although you claim not to be a medical man, and spend time with the dead, dying, or possibly sick, like a medical doctor would do." Then, he abruptly stopped. "You've experienced a great loss recently," he said slowly, after a moment. "Your partner, correct?"

The Doctor didn't answer. No, the man wasn't correct - the Ponds weren't dead, and neither was River - it pained him to add the small _yet_ at the end of that thought - but they might as well have been.

"I'm right, then," Sherlock said, his lips curving into a pleased smile. "Of course I am. So tell me - who are you, really?"

"Couldn't figure it out for yourself?" the Doctor asked, a bit of bitterness tinging his voice. "Some detective you are, then." He forced a cheeky smile.

The man's partner, who still hadn't been introduced, now looked confused as well. "Yeah, usually you have them all figured out by now."

Holmes raised his eyes to the ceiling in faint exasperation. "John," he said, irritated, "I wasn't done yet."

"Sounded like you were," the other man muttered, but said no more.

Sherlock straightened up and looked the Doctor over carefully, pacing around him where he sat, chained to the table, helpless. The Time Lord felt like a zoo animal as he watched the man's progress.

"You're an investigator," the consulting detective said briskly, with no small amount of satisfaction. "Not official, though," he added, "no, you've not been approved. Perhaps you were kicked out of school. Perhaps you didn't want to go to the effort to actually get a real job. You most likely make your money by taking on cases nobody else will take, or solving cases nobody else has solved. Rather like myself, although you are by no extent as good at crime-solving as I am. You probably keep any money you might have hidden away, because you live on the streets, unable to afford a house but with enough money to keep yourself clean. So why did you break into the morgue to see the body? The case is taken, obviously. So - curiousity, then. Wanted to see if you could assist. Probably because you wanted to _help the world_, as sentimental as you obviously are." The man sneered in contempt. "Any of this sounding familiar, _Doctor_?"

The Doctor had nothing much to say. Holmes wasn't entirely right, of course, on several key points, but he was very close. He could, if he wanted to, take his pulse and figure out what was going on in a matter of seconds. However, despite his intelligence, the man was only human, and had probably never even considered the potential for life outside of Earth. He wouldn't be looking for signs of aliens anywhere.

"I thought I would be able to, you know, lend a hand," the Doctor said aloud, grinning a bit wryly. "This seemed to be right up my alley - strange deaths and all. I'm quite good at those. Like you, I suppose. I'll be on my way, though, if you don't mind. Promise I won't intrude anymore." Well, not in sight of any of the humans, anyway. This was still obviously something he had to take care of. Next time he broke in to do the autopsy - and he would - he wouldn't be caught. Even if he had to somehow get up to the window leading into the room and climb in. Maybe he could pilot the TARDIS into the room. That would work well, as long as nobody overheard and came to investigate.

"Not yet," Holmes said, smirking faintly and striding up to the table. "I still want to ask you something. What do you think killed the woman? If you know so much about this type of case." His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

The Doctor shrugged, deciding to play along. "I'm not a professional, what do I know? But if you really want my opinion - I believe she was murdered by something inside her body. Not just internal bleeding, because the paper I saw covering the case would have mentioned it, but it rather sounded like something had killed her from the inside."

The man who Sherlock had addressed as John took a step forward and spoke up again. "What, like a parasite?"

The last of the Time Lords pointed at him, nodding in approval. "Yes! Exactly. What was your name, again?"

"Dr. John Watson."

"Great! Good job, then, Dr. Watson. Any guesses from you?" Beaming, the Doctor crossed his legs and attempted to fold his hands in his lap. As best as he could with handcuffs on, anyway. He was reminded of when he, the Ponds, and River had been in 1969 working to defeat the Silence, especially when he'd been imprisoned by the spaceship, and grinned wider.

The man considered, frowning. In a seemingly rare moment of generosity, Sherlock let him have at it. The Doctor figured it might have had to do with his lack of knowledge on the subject, however, not so much that he actually was being friendly. "Parasites don't kill their hosts, though," he protested thoughtfully. "That would defeat the purpose of being there. They keep hosts to stay alive, not to kill them, and therefore themselves."

The Doctor nodded. "Quite right, Johny-boy. But that's the question, isn't it? What creature would kill the larger animal it was dependant on?" He grinned. "That's a secret, though." He put a finger to his lips. "Very hush-hush."

Sherlock spoke now, finished with being silent. "What is that supposed to mean? You clearly don't work for the government, not even undercover."

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous. I would be absolute rubbish in the government. Keep guessing."

Holmes opened his mouth at the same time that the man with the gray-tinged hair burst into the room. "Sherlock, I need you out," he ordered. The Doctor was almost disappointed. So close. It wasn't necessarily that he wanted them to find him out, but it would add a bit of excitement to it all, not to mention make his investigation go easier. Then they might be able to come up with an excuse for him, and he wouldn't have to sneak around so much. But he could manage without their help, of course.

The consulting detective frowned. "What for?"

"I have to leave to investigate another case - I'm not supposed to leave you alone in here," the man explained. "Out you go. You can continue this tomorrow, if you like."

He was clearly extremely annoyed, but the detective left the room with a quiet huff and a swish of his long, dark coat. John followed behind him with an awkward wave to the Doctor, before the door closed.

Immediately, the Doctor reached into his jacket. The police had taken everything from the surfaces of his multiple pockets - no one ever seemed to actually reach all the way in and meet the huge pile of things in the bottoms of each - which were the most useful tools he had, but he had multiple resources available to his use anyway. He located a bobby pin and pulled it out, fitting it into the lock and jiggling it until the handcuffs snapped open and he was free to move again. He stood, stretched, and opened the door, which had remained unlocked because of his apparent imprisonment to the table. He slipped out and carefully avoided all of the staff on his way to the evidence locker.

He hurriedly grabbed his sonic, psychic paper, TARDIS key, and all the other items they'd stolen from him, and raced out of the building, the alarms going off to signal his escape even as he rushed out the front door and into freedom.

Back on the case.

* * *

**This chapter was kind of a rushed job, because I want to get this story finished this month and to do so I had to post today, but I think it turned out okay. However, I'd love you to tell me what you think.**

**Thank you for all the follows, favorites, and the two reviews I've gotten, I really appreciate it. Despite that, though, I'd love some more feedback. Reviews help me know what I'm doing right and wrong, so for the next chapter to be better than this one, I need some concrit, or maybe just some encouragement, even.**

**In any case, please give me your opinions and stay tuned for the next chapter, to be posted on Saturday, if all goes according to plan.**

**Also, I got my learner's permit yesterday, so I can drive with a parent/guardian any time that's not 12-6AM. XD**

**Oh, and one more thing: a simple question you can answer if you decide to do us all a big favor and review - What would you like to see happen in the story? I have a good idea of what I want to do, but who knows, you could give me a much better idea to help this story flow into the next, or even just help the plot out a bit. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**A day early. *gasp* This is a rare occasion. XD**

* * *

After his break-in attempt, the morgue remained far more secure, to the Doctor's annoyance. He could no longer hope to slip in and out unnoticed, especially now that the police were out looking for him. He'd been spending most of his time in the TARDIS since his escape, but when he did venture out for some fresh air, he had to be quiet and sneaky, something he didn't really enjoy doing, but was necessary.

He planned to materialize the TARDIS into the morgue a couple of nights later, though. It was a risky move, seeing as there would probably be cameras up in the room, if there weren't before, and he could easily be caught - with the TARDIS this time, too - but it was his only option. He had no hope of figuring out how the woman had died without performing an autopsy, and he could not be observed.

Things were looking bleak.

* * *

John walked quickly beside Sherlock down the street. They may have lost their intruder a couple of days ago, but that didn't matter much; the man had seemed mad, anyway, if a little bit clever, and he wouldn't have been of a whole lot of help. Sherlock seemed annoyed, though, which John understood. But there was really no chance of them finding the man again, not if he was smart enough to keep his head down, so they couldn't dwell on it. They could still solve the case.

Although, the madman had given them something interesting; his parasite theory had been confusing to John, but it gave some sort of explanation to why the woman had died. Of course, no proper parasite would kill its host, but still, it could be somewhat of a lead. Maybe it would help lead them along the right path of thought to solve the case. It was just a shame they wouldn't be able to ask him exactly where he was going with that.

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the pavement, his eyes narrowed, not darting around and observing like normal. John froze a few inches ahead of him and followed his gaze.

He caught his breath when he spotted the bowtied man hidden in the shadows of a nearby alleyway, intently inspecting some sort of device and muttering something to himself.

"That's-" John started, but Sherlock cut him off with a sharp look and began walking again, a bit more briskly, in the man's direction. John felt a flutter of uncertainty and reached for his mobile. His first instinct in a situation involving a wanted person was to call the police, However, Sherlock was clearly not planning on it and probably had some sort of plan, so he decided to go along with it for now. If things got out of hand, though, he wouldn't hesitate to call for help from law enforcement.

The madman who had directed them to call him the Doctor hadn't noticed them yet, apparently too consumed with examining his strange tool to pay much attention. He only looked up when Sherlock was standing right in front of them. Although, from the look in his eye, John had the strange feeling that he'd known they were coming.

"Oh, hello!" he greeted anyway, almost apallingly cheerful for a wanted man. "Bumped into each other three times - must be fate." He winked jokingly, and tucked the tool away. John watched him carefully. He'd never seen anything like it before - it could be a weapon, for all he knew. However, there didn't appear to be much of a threat; although the man's eyes were cautious, they weren't dangerous, and his posture was relaxed.

"If you choose to believe in things like fate, then yes," Sherlock said coolly. "Why are you here?"

The Doctor shrugged casually. "Still trying to figure things out, you know. It'd be a lot easier if I could get into the morgue again, but we can't have everything, so I've decided not to dwell on it! Figured maybe I could find something out on my own. Do some investigating." He grinned madly, with a weirdly familiar glint in his eyes. But John couldn't figure out where he'd seen it before.

"I thought you said you'd leave the case be if you were let out," John said.

"Wasn't let out, though, was I?" Still smiling, he clapped his hands together. "So! Where are you gentlemen off to? Another crime scene?"

"Home, actually," Sherlock replied. "Perhaps you'd like to come along."

A strange look came over the Doctor's face, and the smile turned slightly more knowing. "Oh, you live together? That's nice, a couple solving crimes together. Poetic, really."

John sighed heavily, a flare of anger sparking. "We're not a couple," he protested. "Good God, why does everyone think that?"

The Doctor's face fell slightly, but he was still smiling - well, smirking, more like. "Oh. Terribly sorry, then, forgive me. And I've actually got to go, myself. I can't chat long, you see, I've got plenty of things to do."

"I insist," Sherlock persisted, raising his eyebrows. "We still have plenty to talk about, Doctor, or have you forgotten?"

The man seemed uncertain now. "No, of course not. But you see, I really must be going. Maybe I'll get back to you, answer some of those burning questions, Mr. Holmes. Later, though. I'll have time." His voice turned wry and a bit flat with disappointment at the end of the statement. Clearly, spare time was something he detested.

"Oh, you can't spare even a few minutes to help us out?" Sherlock sneered. "I won't call the police," he said then, turning more serious. John stifled a sigh, resigning himself to breaking the law once more. Sherlock would kill him if he jepordized his investigation by jailing a source, no matter how dubious that source happened to be.

The Doctor paused, and a light of curiousity flared in his eyes. "I suppose...perhaps. I love a mystery, really, but I work better with others in the long run. No - no, sorry. I can't."

"Surely you can give us a minute," Sherlock huffed, impatience coloring his face. "We won't turn you in, and you might even be useful. Our flat isn't very far."

Eventually, seeming simultaneously resigned and excited, the Doctor agreed, although his body language was more tense than before as they walked more in the open. He was understandably wary of being caught again.

Fortunately, Sherlock was right; the flat was close by, and they were inside quickly enough, without the Doctor being spotted by the police.

"Tea, anyone?" John asked as they arrived in the sitting room. He tried to ignore the fact that there was a possibly insane man in his home and concentrated on the replies.

"Have Mrs. Hudson do it," Sherlock said dismissively, and John called for her assistance before sitting in his usual chair. The Doctor perched excitedly, his face animated and curious, on a wood dining chair in the middle of the room.

"What is it, John, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she came up the steps.

"Could you make us tea, Mrs. Hudson?" John requested. "We'd really appreciate it - we have a guest, you see."

"Another case, Sherlock?" the old woman said. "I thought you were already on one."

"It's the same case," the detective informed her, in the almost imperceptible softer way he spoke to the woman. "Tea?"

"Not your housekeeper," the woman muttered, but headed to the kitchen. "How am I supposed to work in this mess, Sherlock?"

Ignoring her, the consulting detective went back to their mission, steepling his fingers and looking to the Doctor. "What was it you were saying about parasites, before we had to leave?"

The man straightened a little. "I said nothing about parasites, that was Johny-boy, there."

"Yes, but you implied that he'd gotten it correct, or at least passably close. How, and why, would a parasite have killed this woman?" Sherlock had that look in his eyes - the one he always got while they were investigating. It meant he would be a prat for a while, but John liked it all the same. It was excitement and interest, of a different nature he himself had while they investigated cases, but at the same time similar. It was where the two men related most; on the crime scene.

"Why does anyone kill anyone else?" the Doctor asked, with a slight darkness in his voice that spoke of generous knowledge on the subject. From what Sherlock had said, back at the station, he knew a lot about death. John couldn't help but wonder what sort of things he did, besides investigating cases he wasn't supposed to, that involved murder. He hoped it wasn't doing the act itself, or he definitely would call the police.

Sherlock recited the multiple reasons boredly. "Revenge, insanity, for money, for thrill, many, many reasons. But a parasite does not function that way, Doctor. It keeps a host to live, not to kill the host, as John pointed out before. It would just be killing itself. You are leading us in circles with this supposed lead of yours - what is the purpose?" His voice turned sharp and cutting, and most people looked shocked or intimidated or uncertain at this point, but the Doctor remained unnervingly calm, even smiling some.

"Maybe it's not a parasite," he allowed. "You're right - parasites don't kill their hosts, it doesn't make sense. That's what I was trying to find out with my autopsy - what had killed her."

Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray containing four cups, the teapot, and all the necessary ingredients, setting it on the coffee table with practiced ease and retrieving one cup for herself. "Here you are, boys." She turned to the Doctor. "What was your name, dear, I didn't catch it."

The man smiled a pleased, charming smile at her. "It's just the Doctor, if you will. I don't really go by anything else, haven't for a while. Who are you, then?"

She seemed about to answer, before Sherlock interrupted. "Mrs. Hudson," he said. "Out, please. I'm trying to conduct an interrogation."

The woman made a face at him, but there was fondness in her eyes. "Rude," she muttered as she left with her tea.

"She's a nice woman," the Doctor said pleasantly. "Incredible that she puts up with you both, the way you seem to run around so much and have her make you tea."

"She secretly enjoys it," Sherlock said snappisly. He didn't much like discussing Mrs. Hudson with others, John had noticed. He supposed they were closer than most landladies and their tenants, and they were weirdly fond of each other.

"Especially you," the Doctor noted, not quite unfriendly.

"Can we move on?" John broke in, picking up his cup and sipping from it. The tea scorched his tongue, but he didn't mind that much - it was delicious.

Without a comment, Sherlock continued on with the questioning. "You could have waited to find the autopsy reports after it was performed by a professional and most likely not have been arrested, it's much easier to do, I would think. Why didn't you?"

"I thought it was something I should see for myself," the Doctor said vaguely. "I don't like to get things second-hand. Sometimes second-hand things aren't quite true. Sometimes people miss things, little important things."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and John was slowly overcome with an anxious feeling he couldn't explain. It was like sitting in bed in the dark as a child, old enough to know that monsters weren't real and knowing that you weren't really afraid of those kinds of things any more, but being worried about something unexplainable watching you in the too-still darkness, preparing to attack. And you kept telling yourself there was nothing there, but you felt that ridiculous fear all the same.

"What if I were to help you to do this autopsy?" Sherlock proposed then, his eyes sparking dangerously.

The Doctor watched him warily. "I would be extremely grateful," he decided, "except that you can't."

Sherlock haughtily cocked his eyebrows. "Can't I? You can get anywhere with a passable ID. Which, as I understand it, you did not have last time. A blank piece of paper in a wallet, I heard?"

The Doctor frowned and grumbled something.

Sherlock smirked. "Exactly. Maybe you're clever, but you clearly have your moments, Doctor. Moments others don't have. Have you ever been diagnosed with anything?"

The other man's expression turned around almost completely. He looked gleeful, even if a little bit sulky. "Are you calling me mad?"

"All genius is a little bit mad," Sherlock said coolly, "but you more than most."

"And a genius, too? You're full of compliments today." He glanced at John. "I'm guessing that's unusual for him? He doesn't seem like a very good friend at first glance."

Sherlock seemed irked at that, but John didn't allow him to break in, making sure to speak first. "What are we talking about, letting him do the autopsy?" he asked his friend.

"Perhaps he'll find something interesting," the detective replied, watching the Doctor while he spoke. "What do you say, Doctor? I'll let you in to do the autopsy, we won't report you to the police, and all you have to do is tell us what interesting things you find. Solving the case is more important than locking you up, I assure you."

"It would be a waste of time, anyway," the Doctor said, almost as if reassuring them. "I always manage to get out of situations like that. But yes, I would be willing to share what I find with you both. As long as I get to do this myself. The only thing I ask of you is to make sure there aren't any cameras in the morgue while I'm there. It should only be a few hours, and I intend to start as soon as possible." He glanced out the window. "In an hour, I expect."

John looked uncertainly to his friend, but Sherlock didn't seem to share his reservations of trusting this slightly insane man. "Consider it done. Meet us tomorrow in the same place we met today and we'll come to the flat to share the information. At noon."

The Doctor eyed him shrewdly, but he hid it so well that John wouldn't have catched it if he hadn't been paying close enough attention. "That would be excellent. I'll see you then, I suppose." He stood, and then seemed to remember his tea. It was cooled off some now, but that only seemed to make it easier to chug down, and it was soon gone. "Wonderful tea. Remember, boys - all the cameras in the morgue off in an hour." He grinned. "I love mysteries." He then practically skipped out the door, his face thoughtful as he left, but with a good share of excitement.

Sherlock pulled his mobile of his pocket and dialed a number, leaving his tea untouched. John took care of the tray and returned to the sitting room to find that his flatmate had vanished, presumably to his room.

The former army doctor went to the window and looked out at the street, and the sky starless with light pollution. He could only hope that this wasn't a mistake.

* * *

**So this was a shorter one, sorry. I couldn't keep it going on, though, I'm afraid. It didn't feel quite right.**

**So tell me what you think of it in a review, please! I'm looking forward to all of your opinions. People seem to like the Doctor and Sherlock's interactions. I quite enjoy them myself. They're quite a match, aren't they? Especially with John thrown in. :D**

**Perhaps I'll see you all on Monday, or even Sunday, if things go well on the writing front. XD**


	4. Chapter 4

The TARDIS wheezed and groaned into existence in the morgue, in the far corner opposite the rack of bagged bodies. The Doctor poked his head out to make sure he'd landed in the right place, and then hopped out completely, eager to resume his work.

He closed to doors to his ship and checked the cameras before he moved on, relieved when he found them switched off, as Sherlock had promised. Not that he'd necessarily doubted the man's word, but...well, he'd doubted the man's word.

He located the woman's body for the second time, and busily removed it and placed it again on the autopsy table, pulling on the gloves like he had before, and resuming his cutting into her while he breathed through his mouth and tried not to make a face. He couldn't imagine how those who worked here could stand it, day after day. It had to wear on some part of your brain, staring into people's insides for any extended period of time.

The Time Lord pushed off the thoughts and finished the cut, swallowing hard. He didn't have a delicate stomach - far from it - but really, opening up a dead body would disgust anyone in their right mind. Fortunately, he was in his right mind. Enough to survive, anyway. Being too sane was just plain boring.

He pulled her open and searched through her innards with as much respect as he could manage under the circumstances. He almost hoped he wouldn't find anything, and could leave this up to the police, but of course he wasn't that lucky.

A small glob of unusual orange goo was located nearby her still heart, on a rib, actually. The Doctor cautiously picked it out and placed it in a test tube located in his pocket to test later. He then continued his work, giving close examination to the heart. Sure enough, it looked like it had been forcably stopped by some invader, most likely of the extraterrestrial variety. She had been otherwise internally injured in the process, which explained the blood that had been found at her mouth. The Doctor closed his eyes, taking a moment to pay his respects to the dead stranger, before closing her up again and placing her gingerly back on her rack.

He tossed the blood-stained gloves in the trash, feeling disgusted with himself more than anything now. He had to take a moment to sit in the doorway of the TARDIS, his head in his hands, to come to terms with things. Yes, he'd done autopsies before. But not since the Time War, and although he'd done much worse things - destroying his own planet in this war, for example - he wasn't used to tearing into bodies. And not human ones, so similar to his companions.

She looked like Martha, he thought, the idea paining him more than he cared to admit. An older, harder version of strong, independent Martha Jones the star. And he couldn't help but think of Amy on that table, being opened up by a stranger, or Rory, or Donna, or Jack, or even Mickey, or, God forbid _Rose_, or _River_, his new wife and-

He cut those thoughts off, shaking himself. He'd sworn, after New York, that he wouldn't let this type of thing cut him down, even temporarily. He'd have time to think about dead humans later, when he was alone and could wander the halls of the TARDIS and find little things of theirs to help him remember them; one of Rose's jackets, an Agatha Christie novel he knew Donna had been reading before she'd been forced to leave...

No, stop that. No time for that.

He stood, albeit a little shakily for his liking, and steadied himself. "Stupid old man," he muttered, and cast one last look around the cold, silent room before stepping into the TARDIS and taking off once more.

He registered a second too late that the light signalling that the camera was running had been glowing a dim orange, and had been since he'd turned his back on it after his first check.

* * *

John found Sherlock intently watching he screen of his - not Sherlock's, _his_ - laptop, a familiar curiosity in his expression.

"What are you doing?" the army doctor asked, coming into the sitting room fully after spending some time doing work in his bedroom.

"Watching," the detective replied shortly, and continued staring at the screen.

John hurried to his friend's side. When he caught sight of the screen, he couldn't help but raise his eyebrows. The video Sherlock was observing was of the Doctor, presumably from a security camera, one of the ones Sherlock had claimed to have turned off. The man was putting the woman's body away after fixing her up some, and began taking his gloves off. "I thought you turned those off."

"I did. They're not recording, John. They're simply feeding me the information. I could record it on your computer, but I've decided not to. I don't want any evidence of me watching him work."

"So you didn't catch how he got in?" John asked.

"No, unfortunately. Let alone how he managed to get that police box in there." Sherlock frowned. "It wasn't there before, I checked before he arrived."

"How long was the camera off?"

"Long enough for him to somehow get it inside, but there aren't any signs that anything was moved."

John peered closer, looking at the shadowy blue box closer. "A police box, you said?"

"Yes - used in the 1950's and 60's by police officers to keep prisoners in until backup arrived, or for citizens to call for help. It doesn't make sense for one to be there, even with the Doctor's questionable sanity." Sherlock steepled his fingers and continued to observe the events unfolding before them.

The two of them watched, Sherlock with cold interest, and John with plain fastination, and a little bit of recognition, as the bowtied man sat down heavily in the now-open doorway of the police box. Light streamed from the interior, but from the camera's position, they couldn't see inside. The Doctor put his head in his hands, and his shoulders hunched in a way John found horribly familiar - he had found himself in similar positions after the war. He would have a painful memory or a flashback, and he would end up on the floor or sitting on the bed curled in a ball, breathing hard, completely miserable. The Doctor looked the same when he finally lifted his head minutes later. There was no evidence of tears, but his eyes were sharp with pain.

"Interesting," Sherlock intoned, and John realized he was glancing between him and the Doctor. "What do you think of him, John?" And John thought he saw, briefly, a touch of the same misery lingering behind his friend's eyes. He remembered hearing from Mycroft about Sherlock's past drug use, and his somewhat rocky childhood. The man had never been to war - definitely not - but he was a soldier all the same.

John watched the Doctor stand with a hint of a tremble and mutter, "Stupid old man," so quitely the camera almost didn't pick it up, and climb into the police box and close the doors. And realized; all three of them were soldiers, in their different ways.

However, that train of thought was de-railed when the police box began wheezing and groaning, and started fading from existance.

"What the h-" John started, jolting back in shock with a twist of the stomach to accompany it, just as the front door's knob turned sharply and the Doctor stepped inside, surprising both of the men already present. His face was dark.

* * *

John almost expected the man to come after them with a knife, from the look on his face, but instead, he stormed into the kitchen and started making tea with much more force than was necessary. Even Sherlock, when John stole a look at him, seemed faintly puzzled.

"I thought you turned the cameras off," the Doctor said briskly, his tone clipped and angry and a little bit weary as he slammed the kettle onto the stove. The clang echoed briefly throughout the flat.

"No need to fret about it," Sherlock chided, clicking a few times on John's laptop and then closing it. "The video was simply coming to John's computer here. Nobody else will lay eyes on it."

A sort of musical, clashing noise came from the kitchen. John suspected the Doctor had bashed something metal against the wall. His first instinct was to run out and inspect the damage, but instead he closed his eyes and resolved to look at it later, when things had calmed down some. Mostly, he just had to focus on not agitating their so-called guest any further.

"Fine," the Doctor grumbled from the kitchen. Thankfully, now that the tea appeared to be in process, there was nothing much to bang on the counters that wouldn't break, and the Doctor didn't seem to actually want to harm anything, to John's relief. The last thing they needed was another mess to clean up. "But that doesn't excuse that I _told you_ to _turn the cameras off_."

"No one will see them," Sherlock repeated in a huff. "It's not anything to throw a fit over."

"Sherlock," John warned in a low voice, one that Sherlock should have recognized, with all the times John had had to guide him along in social endeavors. "This is about _trust_, not whether someone will see it."

The Doctor finally seemed ready to emerge from the kitchen and face the two of them, and so he did. His eyes were guarded and shadowed, and his chin worked from side to side furiously as he stared them down. "I always seem to think," he muttered, "that I can trust people, but I always seem to be proven wrong. Not that all of you lot are bad, mind, but you, Sherlock Holmes, are not exactly a dependable man, as far as I've seen." He glared at the consulting detective, who remained impressively unfazed. Even John was a bit intimidated by the usually happy, bouncing bowtie-clad man's current expression.

"This doesn't effect the case," Sherlock said evenly, but his eyes were narrowed slightly, and John could tell that soon things would escalate further.

"If it doesn't effect the case," the Doctor said, his voice pressed with exasperation and repressed fury, "then why were you spying on me?"

"He was just curious," the army doctor defended his friend. The Doctor didn't react besides his eyes flickering toward John for a moment. "I mean, I don't blame him. You've been talking in circles this whole time, and I don't even know if you were planning to tell us anything about the autopsy at all. I don't think you're very trustworthy yourself."

The Doctor frowned, and his chin continued working. "Ohh...shut up," he huffed, and turned back to the kitchen to finish with the tea.

Sherlock didn't even mutter a 'thank you,' but instead went busily about his questioning after a short pause. "So, Doctor, what happened with your police box?"

John couldn't see into the kitchen from where he stood, but by the sudden silence, he knew that the Doctor had frozen. "What do you mean?" he asked, a forced attempt at casual.

"Oh," Sherlock drawled, "nothing. It just disappeared in front of us, is all. So how did you manage it?" His eyes were fiendishly bright.

After a tense hesitation that almost had John holding his breath, the small noises in the kitchen resumed. Cups clacked against the tray, there was the sound of liquid being poured, and the soft sliding noises floated into the sitting room ass the tray was removed from the counter. The Doctor's steps were light and slightly anxious in their sound as he neared the sitting room. When he arrived, he was understandably wary, and he set the tray down on the coffee table carefully. He grabbed one of the three cups that he'd prepared and retreated to the same seat he'd taken last time.

"It's a very complicated matter," the Doctor finally allowed once he'd settled himself in the chair, sipping at his tea in apparent contemplation. It was hard to tell if he was about to lie or not, and John was starting to feel uneasy. He took one of the cups of tea and took a drink, hoping that might calm him for a while - at least until this little meeting, or whatever it was, was over.

"I'm sure," Sherlock said sarcastically, and picked up his own cup. However, he didn't take a drink, instead watching the Doctor carefully.

The man across the room folded his hands around his cup and looked to the ceiling thoughtfully, clearly exasperated. "As smart as you are, Sherlock," he said wryly, "I don't think you would have jumped to the proper conclusion. At least, not as quickly as you're used to jumping to conclusions. I'm not a government agent, no. No I'm not a detective, not really of any sort, although I do like to solve puzzles. I'm not _really_ a Doctor, as you've already figured out. There are lots of things I'm not, actually. It just takes a bit to get them all out of the way to get to what I _am_." Here, the seriousness faded, and he gave a slightly tired grin. "People don't seem to think it's very hard to figure me out - or anyone, actually - but then, people can be quite thick. Even you, Mr. Holmes, sometimes. I think you'll come to it eventually, but I'm rather inclined to think that John might come to the right conclusion first."

Sherlock immediately looked to his friend, who happened to be perplexed, and didn't really have a clue what he was talking about. However, if he thought about it, maybe he could come up with something. It would probably be preposterous, but-

The Doctor cut off his thoughts, perhaps sensing where things were going, with a hearty, "Now that that's done! I may not be able to completely trust you, but who _completely_ trusts anyone these days? Dog-eat-dog world and all of that nonsense. So - what do you say we get back to work on that case? I think I might be on the something important. And don't worry, it'll lead you to some answers if you're attentive." He winked at John, and the army doctor was honestly a bit startled by the sudden change in mood. He almost seemed like an entirely different person from the angry, bordering on violent, man from before. People had many sides, John reflected. Everyone did.

"So, I'll analyze what I found at the morgue," the Doctor suggested, pulling out a test tube with a tiny glob of orange in it and shaking it at them as his spoke. Before they could get a good look at it, though, he shoved it back into his pocket and continued on, "You two can keep looking into your more police-y stuff, and we'll meet tomorrow to discuss things. Agreed?"

Sherlock seemed annoyed by being grouped in the same level as the police, but he thankfully didn't argue besides a disdainful curl of his upper lip. "Agreed, I suppose. John and I have another mystery to occupy ourselves with, anyhow, don't we John?" John opened his mouth, confused, but Sherlock waved him off. The Doctor watched the exchange curiously, but seemed to decide not to comment.

"I'll be off, then," the man said, standing and finishing off his tea with a large gulp and a satisfied 'ahhh.' "Until tomorrow, I suppose!" He set his cup back onto the tray with flourish and ambled out the door. His expression remained relatively carefree until he thought they couldn't see him, whereupon his brow creased and his eyes became dark again. John didn't have very much time to ruminate on this, however, as the door closed immediately after him.

"What did you mean," John wondered after a moment, "by another mystery for us to solve?"

Sherlock gave him an irritated look, but answered readily enough. "Moriarty's disappearance, of course. Had you forgotten? Anyway, it's important for us to look into. He has to deal with the woman's death somehow beyond just being her boss - the woman screamed before she died. Whatever happened before she was killed was obviously startling, and I doubt that it was the actual act of dying itself that surprised her. I'm inclined to believe she didn't expect it at all." He steepled his fingers once more, after abandoning his untouched tea on the coffee table.

John sighed. "Right, then. I'll see what mess the Doctor might have made in the kitchen while you're busy _thinking._" He stood and headed toward the cooking area, preparing to clean.

To his relief, the man hadn't made a mess besides a few splashes of tea that could be easily wiped up later. That didn't explain the clashing sound from earlier, but it might have been simply metal on metal. There weren't any two metal objects nearby, though, that could make that kind of noise...

The army doctor yawned a little, deciding to think about it later on, and started to his room to relax some. Knowing the way their investigations usually turned, things were about to get interesting. He'd have to get some relaxation time in before the excitement took over his life.

* * *

**As always, reviews make me happy, and improve the story.**

**I'm also not a medical professional, so if I said anything incredibly wrong here, _please_ let me know. I will be eternally grateful.**

**And sorry about the late update. Monday killed me, and Tuesday was no better. On another note, 13 days until Christmas!**


	5. Chapter 5

"So, what, he just disappeared?" John asked, frowning and setting down the newspaper he had been pretending to read earlier, while Sherlock had paced around the flat and muttered to himself.

"Yes!" Sherlock snarled, sitting down in annoyance. "I just said that, John! He just vanished, into thin air!" The utter fury in his voice was formidable.

John considered this, his brow furrowing. "You've looked at all of the evidence," he mused, "looked through that whole flat just an hour ago, and then spent another hour here making a mess while you were thinking, and decided that he _disappeared_?"

"Yes!" the consulting detective snapped. "He had to have - none of the evidence suggests that he left the room at all, or even moved his feet after arriving at the woman's bedside. The shoe imprints were marked as well, and as incompetent as Lestrade's team is, I can recall from memory what it all looked like, and everything is completely correct!" He stood again, starting for his violin, and started playing violently facing the window, so loudly and angrily that John began to develop a headache.

"Sherlock," he tried, but his friend wasn't listening, and even though John couldn't see him, he knew that his eyes were fiery with frustration. "Sherlock!" Finally, his flatmate spun around and pointed the bow at him.

"What?"

"Why don't you just tell me what else you found, even if it didn't help. Maybe I can come up with something."

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, John. If I couldn't produce a helpful deduction, I doubt you would be capable of it."

Anger flared in John's gut. "Sherlock."

"Fine, if you insist!" The man turned to face the windows, away from his friend, and rattled off the little information he'd accumuliated at the dead woman's flat. "The shoe prints were plainly in front of the woman's bed, so he didn't move after he entered the room and came up to her. She wasn't sleeping, and Moriarty isn't exactly very stealthy, so she had to have let him in, probably knew that he was coming to get rid of her. The police found a gun in the drawers of her bedside table, so it's most likely that she was going to attempt to retrieve it in a feeble effort to defend herself against her boss. However, something occured, maybe even Moriarty's disappearance, that terrified her enough to make her scream. Being an employee of a man like Moriarty, she would have to be strong enough to be able to handle most things. Whatever happened, it was strange and startling enough to get an audible reaction out of her. After speaking to the landlady, I discovered that her cry had died off abruptly. Therefore, I am correct - she died in mid-scream, and quickly enough to cut her off like that."

John nodded thoughtfully. "That's actually pretty good, it's more information, any-"

"But it gives us no clues as to what actually happened to Moriarty," Sherlock interrupted in exasperation, "which is what I'm primarily concerned with at the moment, John, if you haven't forgotten. It will be easy to find out how the woman actually died when the Doctor actually decides to give us the results of the autopsy." Irritated, he lifted the violin again and began playing in staccato, the quick, sharp notes displaying his annoyance clearly.

John sighed, and took the paper up again, actually attempting to read it this time. Hopefully the Doctor would come soon. And maybe then he would talk normally, and actually give them some answers. Somehow, John doubted that that would happen, and he sighed again.

* * *

The Doctor, upon returning to the TARDIS and taking some time to relax in the library and revisit some of his old haunts inside the ship, then resolved to work on the case some, and set things up for a scan on the small orange blob he'd taken from Whitney Kyle's body.

He pulled the stopper off of the test tube he had been storing the glob of orange in, and shook the little, quivering, almost jello-like piece of matter into a square hole in the console set specifically aside for scans.

"Run a scan, old girl," he told his ship, rubbing the console lovingly with one hand. "And maybe do a diagnostic on the wardrobe, also - I thought I saw chip moths earlier. Wouldn't do to have them running about the ship. Not if I want to eat chips anytime soon."

The TARDIS whirred in apparent agreement, and the Doctor took the moniter and rolled it over to him to watch the proceedings. On the screen the orange glob was displayed, with a small box in the corner showing the wardrobe diagnostic running as well. He turned his attention to the scan, however, as it was most important. He watched as the little blob was looked at all over as thoroughly as the TARDIS was capable of.

The diagnositic was finished first, and he brought the box of information to the center of the screen to look at it closer. To his annoyance, his wonderful ship had found a small collection of chip moths taking up residence in the wardrobe, as well as in the library. He would have to say goodbye to his favorite chips for the time being, while he worked on getting rid of the pesky alien bugs. He never knew why they'd gone after chips. While they were delicious, he'd never thought of them as being things creatures (besides humans and Time Lords) would be attracted to. However, now wasn't the time to question the logic of little creatures like chip moths. He had to get rid of them first and formost, and the only way to get rid of chip moths was to lure them away with their favorite food and capture them in some sort of containment unit. Then, they would have to be set free on the single planet set aside for the little pests in the future. He would just have to make sure he got back into the TARDIS before more darted inside the ship and ruined things further.

The TARDIS broke into his thoughts with a beep and he glanced up at the monitor. "Got the results, have we, dear?" he said. "We'll just have to deal with the chip moths later, then. Maybe when we've wrapped things up here. It won't do to stay infested with them for too long, will it?" There was no reply. "Of course not. Bring up the results, then."

The image of the orange blob was shunted to the side of the screen and turned in a three-sixty for him to glimpse all sides of it. Then a dialog box appeared, full of results in Circular Gallifreyan. Slowly, realization crept onto the Doctor's face. "Ohh," he breathed. "That makes perfect sense, then. But why would it kill her?" He wiggled his chin in thought, and began ambling around the console in consideration. "Something must have frightened it enough to startle it. Or maybe it did mean to kill her, eventually...they do have a tendancy to go a bit bonkers without interaction with other living creatures, and this one could have been seperated from its pack, somehow..." he trailed off, and then dashed back to the monitor to look more carefully. The color slowly drained from his face.

"I'd better see Sherlock and John," he decided.

* * *

John ran into the Doctor on the stairway. The man was coming up, his expression slightly concerned but mostly stony and blank. He almost didn't see John until they were nearly face-to-face, and John had said, "Doctor," in greeting.

"Oh, hello!" he said, and his voice was strained just the slightest. "Great! You're just the person I wanted to see, Johnny-boy. One half of the whole, anyway. Is Sherlock in the flat?"

John nodded. "Yeah, I was just about to go out. Is this about the case?"

"Of course it is. Have you two come up with anything new so far?"

The army doctor wasn't sure if he was supposed to say anything about Moriarty or not, but since Sherlock had been discreet about it during their last meeting, he figured he'd better stay silent. "Not a whole lot, no."

"That's unfortunate." The Doctor spun John around, and propelled him up the stairs. The man was too surprised to resist, at least until they reached the door to the flat.

"Hold on, what are you doing here? I thought you'd come at night."

"I just couldn't wait to see you two!" the Doctor exclaimed, lying so obviously that it was shameful. "I've just got news, that's all. You two have got to get out of this flat." He said it so cheerfully that John didn't react, opening the door on instinct and getting halfway inside the flat, where Sherlock was sitting, before saying, "Wait, what?"

"Hello, Doctor," Sherlock said coolly. "Is there a problem?" He glanced at John, who frowned and shrugged.

The Doctor fidgeted impatiently. "Sort of. Not really for you. More of a 'me' problem, actually. However, I think it might involve you, and so you should probably clear the flat for the time being. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson should leave as well." He smiled faintly, but it was tight and didn't reach his eyes.

A sharp sort of buzzing noise came from outside, sounding like it was coming from the street bwlow, and the Doctor stiffened. The noise stopped quickly. "Right, out we go!" he called, and physically hauled a surprised Sherlock out of his chair and pushed him and John outside. Mrs. Hudson was coming up the stairs, looking nervous, just as they were descending from the flat.

"Sherlock?" she asked uncertaintly. The Doctor grabbed her hand and continued to force the three unwilling people out of the building.

The buzzing started up again, much louder, and the Doctor's face creased in worry, and he walked faster. Sherlock and John both got away from him, hauling Mrs. Hudson away with them.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock snapped, nearly standing in front of their landlady, protecting her.

"It's hard to explain," the Doctor chirped, stress evident in his eyes. "But we have to get out of here."

"Why?" John broke in, voice harsh with anger and worry he'd caught from the Doctor.

The man stomped his foot in frustration. "You're all so difficult! Why do I put up with you? You have to come because..." he paused, and then sighed and continued, "I recieved a transmission a few minutes ago, and you have some sort of connection to what killed Whitney Kyle, and you're in danger." He spread his arms and stepped toward them. "Now will you please come with me." It wasn't a question. "It's for your own good."

The buzzing persisted, not stopping, and the Doctor's breath visibly quickened. "Come on. You're not in very much danger, true, but they can be quite rash at times, so you never know..." he trailed off, looking helpless and angry about it.

"Who is this 'they' you're talking about, Doctor?" Sherlock asked, curiously brightening his eyes. "You sound like a lunatic."

The bowtied man huffed. "You're all ridiculous. Alright. If you come with me, you'll see what I've been keeping from you. I said you had to peel back the layers of what I'm not to get to what I am, correct? Well I'm about to do that for you, if you follow me."

John wanted to walk away, wanted to dismiss the man as mad. But Sherlock was interested, as always, and said quietly, "Mrs. Hudson, leave. Don't go back into the flat, if he insists it's not safe, but get away from here."

"Sher-"

"Mrs Hudson!" he shouted, and although she frowned at him, she skittered off in the opposite direction, wrapping her cardigan more tightly around herself.

"Sherlock," John said, but his friend wasn't listening.

"Come on, John," the consulting detective told him. "Answers." The Doctor watched them, looking hopeful and nervous.

"Fine," John relented, and immediately they were following the Doctor onward, into the nearest alley, the one they'd discovered him in earlier, after he'd escaped Scotland Yard.

A blue box sat at the far end of the alley, the same one from the morgue, the one that had disappeared before their very eyes. The Doctor walked to stand in front of it, and when the two other men stopped before him and his box, he snapped his fingers, and one of the doors opened with a soft click.

The Doctor motioned them inside, pushing past them both when they stood very nearly in the doorway, and the doors closed of their own accord.

John could hardly breathe, and when he looked at Sherlock, he could see that his friend, with all of his deductions and intelligence, hadn't expected this, either.

The Doctor walked up to the thing in the center of the far-too-large-for-logic room, and pushed some buttons. "Boys," he began, proud despite the apparent urgency of the situation, "welcome to the TARDIS."

* * *

**I hated this chapter when I first wrote it, and I'm not sure if I like it any more now, in the rewrite, so I might change things up later. But tell me your thoughts, anyway. Reviews make the story better, as I always say.**

**Also, this is the first story in this series that has gone over the minimum expected amount of chapters, which I'd guessed to be between 5 and 8. It'll most likely end up at 7 chapters, but you never know. Things could stray on to 9 if I can't wrap things up properly in a few chapters' time. I wouldn't say that would necessarily be a bad thing, though. I like this story. XD**

**Also, if I've made any mistakes, tell me. The rewriting was sort of rushed so that I could post today. :/**


	6. Chapter 6

The Doctor turned his back on his new guests for the moment, and began fiddling with the controls of his ship, attempting to bring the information he'd gathered onto the monitor. Sherlock and John were suspiciously silent, and while he outwardly maintained the illusion of business, he was practically shaking with excitement. Having new people in the TARDIS was his favorite thing, probably. Maybe even as good as, or better than, bow ties, or fish custard.

After no more than ten seconds of imaginary bustling, with all the information he required displayed on the screen before him, he lost his patience and whirled around to take a look at the two men standing just inside the doors. He had to admit, he was a little uncertain about what their reactions might be.

Sherlock had gripped the railing by the stairs with a white-knuckled hand, and had his eyes narrowed. It was impossible to tell if he was deducing something about the room, or if he was simply churning things over in his head, trying to process it and not really seeing anything at all. John's eyes were wide, and he stared around the interior of the TARDIS in blatent disbelief. Both pretty normal reactions, to the Doctor's relief. He wasn't prepared to deal with unexpectedness at the moment. He had to keep in mind that despite their strangeness - Sherlock's mostly - they were still humans.

"So," the Doctor began. "That's that, then." He waved a hand at them impatiently. "Come on, shift up here. You're slow at all the wrong times - this is actually somewhat of an urgent situation. I say somewhat because there probably isn't a threat of death, but as I said before, our potential danger can be unpredictable."

"How is this...possible?" John rasped, ignoring everything the Time Lord had just said. "It's..." he glanced behind him, at the closed doors, and reached out as if to open them. Hurriedly, before he could venture outside, the Doctor pulled the takeoff lever, and the whole ship shuddered, startling John away from the doors, and rousing Sherlock from his apparent stupor.

"Doctor," Sherlock snapped as the ship settled, floating in deep space, although the two men didn't know that. "What is the meaning of this?"

The Doctor blinked at him, something like disappointment taking form in a frown on his face. "I thought you'd have guessed by now. I only showed you into my ship. You can be incredibly thick, I'm afraid, Mr. Holmes - you ought to work on that." Sherlock scowled at him and looked away, his expression hinting that he was in deep thought.

John had now abandoned his attempt to exit the TARDIS, and was staring openly at the Doctor, who felt his frown being replaced by an eager smile as the stare lengthened. The army doctor then glanced around the console room once more.

"John?" Sherlock inquired, his expression antsy and irritated. He too turned his eyes on the Time Lord, evidently trying to see what his partner had spotted.

"He-" John stuttered. The Doctor grinned wider, and madder. Sherlock cocked his head in curiosity, still struggling to see it. "_No,_" John finished. "You've got to be kidding me."

"It depends," the Doctor chirped, going back to the monitor and smiling mischeviously at the friends. "What do you think, John? Any deductions to make? It's about time you had a turn, I think."

Sherlock, for once, let his friend take over, listening intently and watching the Doctor all the while.

"He's...Sherlock, it's..."

"If you're directing the 'it' at me," the Doctor said, in mostly fake annoyance, "that's incredibly rude of you. I'm still male, actually. So, 'he' would apply." The annoyance melted, and he was grinning again.

"No," John said, "I wasn't...Sherlock, he's an alien." This last came out in a blurt of disbelief, odd with the normally controlled man's other words.

Sherlock scoffed. "John, don't be-"

"Go outside, then," the Doctor interrupted, moving forward and hopping down the stairs, reigning in his excitement. New people always filled him with more energy than normal, which, considering his normal state in this body, was nearly dangerous. He pushed past the two humans and flung open the doors to reveal a starry landscape, which both men behind him rushed in to peer closer at.

Ages seemed to pass, with all three of them staring out at the mass of brightly burning gasses, before Sherlock drew back, his face stony again. John, meanwhile, had his mouth dropped open slightly, and seemed incapable of moving. The Doctor pretended not to notice their respective reactions, and let the expanse of stars consume his vision.

"That's amazing," John breathed, and the Doctor grinned and dragged the man back a bit to allow the doors to close. When he went back to the console, he found Sherlock there, looking down at the buttons and tracing the nooks and crannies of the console's surface contemplatively, his gaze intense as his fingertips grazed over a particularly dangerous control. Quickly, the Doctor pulled him back, and found John at his side.

"John was right, by the way," he said, as nonchalantly as he could. "I'm an alien. Alien to you lot anyway - you're all aliens to me. Actually, everything but this ship is, so - anyway! That's no fun to think about! The autopsy, that's why we're here. The results of the autopsy!"

"I thought there was a danger in the flat," Sherlock said coolly, back to his normal, unruffled self. The Doctor had to admit that he was a little impressed - none of his companions, and not even John, had managed to get over things that quickly, although he suspected that it was just a mask. Oh well, Sherlock would have plenty of time to mull over things later. Considering humans, though, he'd start asking mountains of questions very soon. And considering Sherlock, they would probably be strange, interesting, and come exactly when the Doctor was trying to get something important done.

"Okay, that too," the Doctor allowed, resolving to plow through his explanation before either Sherlock or John could distract themselves with questions, and directed their attention to the monitor. "The autopsy, then!"

"No, hang on," John started, "you can't just admit that you're an alien and then continue on like nothing's changed. You're not _human_, for God's sake, that should change _something_ about this entire thing."

"Of course it does!" the Doctor crowed, slapping a hand on the army doctor's shoulder. "It very much affects the autopsy, which I'm trying to show you, if only you would stop getting distracted." He gave the man a pointed look, and John closed his half-open mouth.

"Go on, Doctor," Sherlock instructed.

"Yes! Where was I? Right, of course - autopsy. I'm almost as easily distracted as you lot. Blimey, must be getting old." He rubbed his cheek, frowning. "But that's not important, anyway. So. Creatures called Heart Spirits." He jabbed a finger at the monitor, once again drawing them to it, like moths to a light. You could say a lot about humans - distracted, ignorant, even cruel - but they were always wonderfully curious, a trait the Doctor in particular delighted in. "They're parasites that take up residence nearby other creatures' hearts, hence the name. You wouldn't know you had one if you did, as they don't show up on most human-made x-rays, and the humans came up with the name when they discovered them, so - Heart Spirits. They're orange in color, and secrete an identical orange liquid when frightened, in defense. The fluid, however, in the human body, ends up being mostly a solid, hence," and here he produced the test tube with the small blob of orange inside, "this little beauty. They're also worm-like, with strong muscles like a snake's. And Whitney Kyle's heart was stopped by force..." he trailed off, watching John's brow furrow as he thought, and Sherlock's clear as he apparently came up with the solution.

"It stopped her heart," Sherlock declared, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. There was also something that was stony and intrigued behind his eyes, but the Doctor decided not to delve into that just yet. Now wasn't the time. "And obviously it was frightened, to give off the liquid you mentioned. So, something must have frightened her enough to scare it, and it-"

"Squeezed around her heart and stopped it!" the Doctor interrupted in a shout. "Exactly! See, you couldn't have figured this out without me, could you?" When neither of them responded, he beamed. "Of course not. This kind of thing is my specialty, you know." He continued to grin, this time more proudly, at them.

Sherlock's smirk grew marginally, and the Doctor had a feeling that he was about to be lectured. "But what startled her, Doctor?" the man said, almost in a purr. John smiled slightly, hardly enough to be noticed, but the Doctor saw it, and rolled his eyes.

"Shut up, don't be so smug," he scoffed. "That's the only thing I'm missing, there's no need to throw a fit over it."

The smirk widened further. "And we've got your missing piece, Doctor," the consulting detective said. And then, now smiling deviously, "Moriarty."

It took a moment for the Doctor's mind to catch up. "What are you on about? What's Moriarty?" Mystified, he watched realization dawn on John's face. There had been hints of it in the smile from before, but now it was fully formed, and the army doctor seemed to have captured the whole picture.

"Not what," Sherlock corrected, "who."

"Now you're just being purposefully slow about it," the Doctor sighed. "Just tell me, would you? You do like to drag things on." He had to admit, though, the suspense was wonderful.

Sherlock seemed to sense this, and straightened with importance. "Moriarty is a criminal mastermind," he began, "like myself, a consultant to those that request his help, but with criminal affairs. His shoeprints were found at the woman's bedside the night she died. There was no trail leading out of the flat, only in it, and the only explanation I can come up with is that he disappeared."

The Doctor felt a mad grin growing on his face. "Genius!" he exclaimed. "That works perfectly! The only question is, how did he disappear? Was it by choice, or was he somehow abducted against his will?"

"We don't know," John butted in, "but can we skip over that for now? Why did you rush us out of the flat like that? What kind of danger was there?"

"It's to my belief," the Time Lord explained, "that our little Spirit friend, the one who killed Miss Kyle, was somehow seperated from his pack - they usually travel in groups, you see, before they reach a planet with acceptable hosts - and they've come looking for him." He brought up the information on the monitor and showed them. "They discovered you two were involved with his host, and seem to suspect that you were in some way responsible for his death. They can't do much damage to Earth itself, really, and they're mostly peaceful, but they can do some terrible things to individuals if they have the mind to, and I'd rather not risk it."

"Do you think it's possible that they took Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, not sounding like he believed it. "Believing him to be responsible as well?"

The Doctor shook his head. "They only arrived here early this morning, they couldn't have. So we still have that to deal with - but first, we should probably contact them and preach our case."

"Oh no, we're not-" John cut himself off, his expression a mix of fright and disgust. "We're not going to some alien trial, are we? Please tell me we're not-"

"No, don't be silly," the Doctor said, "none of that. We'll just make a call, that's all. And oh look, a nice little rhyme." He beamed, and began pressing buttons on the typewriter. "We'll get this all sorted, quick and easy."

"How are we going to go about speaking with them if they're parasites?" Sherlock inquired, watching the Doctor work with unabashed fastination.

"They don't possess people, do they?" John asked, looking almost like he would be sick.

The Doctor stopped and stared at him. "_No_, John, they don't possess people." He gave a little bit of a scoff and continued on. "Their whole ship is an organism for them, in a way. If they were ever to land and intended to live on Earth, they would need hosts, yes, but not in their ship."

"So we'll be talking to worms," John clarified. He didn't look as disturbed now, but there was still a bit of disgust.

The Time Lord rolled his eyes. "Yes, but it won't matter, really. The ship will be dark, so don't worry."

"But what do they _actually -_"

"_John._ Shut up."

Sherlock said not a word, simply watched the exchange with amusement.

"Right, then, dialing now."

"Do they have some sort of space phone?" John asked, with heavy sarcasm but some genuine curiosity as well.

"If you like," the Doctor sighed. These were not the kind of questions he'd been hoping for. There hadn't even been any 'it's bigger on the inside's' yet. Disappointing. "Now shut up, will you? I'm trying to - oh, hello there! I'm the Doctor."

At first, there was nothing but a black screen, but slowly, the figure of a worm creature became visible. The Doctor had expected a lack of light, of course, been prepared for complete darkness, even, but he'd thought things would be a bit less dim. Well, there wasn't anything to do about it at this point.

Words, in English, to John's apparent surprise, judging by his nearly-silent, 'oh,' appeared on the screen, colored a very electronic green. _Identify yourself further,_ they read.

"Oh, you know who I am, don't bother with that. You contacted me first. I'm here to talk to you about my friends Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Apparently you seem to think that they killed your friend, going by your message. They didn't, actually."

_Excuse us if we are not inclined to believe you. One will say anything to spare a friend._

"But I'm not just saying anything," the Doctor protested, just a tad offended. "I don't just say _anything._ I've been accused of babbling, but I don't just say _anything,_ not when lives are at stake. And I know you would punish them," he added, more darkly, "if you were to get your hands on them - er - if you were to take them."

"I thought you said you didn't think they'd hurt us," John blurted, protest written in every line of him. "You said they weren't dangerous, really, and that we'd be fine."

"John," the Doctor snapped, closing his eyes. "I hoped you would." His hearts sped up. He could only hope the Spirits wouldn't be insulted. Sherlock chimed in, then, however, and the Time Lord sighed.

"Lying to us further, after all of your previous deceit, was not a smart move. Why not tell us the truth?"

The Doctor replied in an angry mutter. "Humans are panicky."

"I assure you, we've seen plenty-"

"Shush!" the Time Lord shouted, cutting the detective off. "If you have any sense of self-preservation you will shut up right now, and stop getting in my way." To his relief, the Spirits appeared to be ignoring his companions, and responded simply.

_Murderers must be punished, Doctor. You should know this._

"Oh, yeah, but they're not murderers, see. Look." Stifling a sigh of faint relief, he directed the TARDIS to get together the autopsy documents she'd created and put them all into a folder. "Organization isn't usually my style," he confided in the aliens, "but I thought it might help our case if I wrote some things down. Or, my ship did." A beep indicated that everything was in order, and he depressed a few keys on the typewriter to send the virtual papers off. "I'm giving you the information now, it should be on your screen. Got it?"

Silence, for a long minute, in which the Doctor was sure all the hearts in the TARDIS were pounding away. Even the ship herself was whirring, tension drawn tightly in the sound. _You are suggesting that the Spirit killed was responsible for his own death._

The Doctor nodded. "Yes, I am, because he was. He - completely on accident, mind - killed his host, and therefore himself. It was a fatal mistake, but a mistake all the same. And these two humans play no part in it. They were simply investigating the death of the host."

_You are not known for your ability to tell the truth, as tesitfied by your companions._

They were insistant, he had to give them that. He wished they would have let the humans' interruptions go, but you couldn't have everything you wanted, unfortunately. "Maybe not, but I am telling the truth, this time. Right now, I am."

_We will not depart until we are certain, Doctor. You understand._

"I sent you documents," the Time Lord protested. "You can't keep pestering us, when I sent you proof already."

_They could have easily been fakes_. The little electronic letters looked almost sinister now, mocking.

"Yeah, only they're not, but you obviously refuse to accept that so - more proof! What do you suggest? You're the bosses, you say the word and we'll get you your proof." He showed them the test tube. "Is this enough proof for you? Do I need to re-send the documents give you some evidence that they're legitimate? Do you want to examine the body for yourselves - what do you want from us?" By the end, frustration had crept its way into his voice, fiery and harsh.

For a moment, everything was still. John occupied himself by holding his breath; Sherlock by intently watching the screen, eyes sharp. The Doctor closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reopened them.

_You are not telling us the entire story,_ the screen said. _That is what we require, at the very least. If you refuse to explain, we will take the humans and leave for the Shadow Proclaimation._

"You don't have any evidence that they did anything, first of all," the Doctor retorted. He then had to calm himself, and placed a more pleasant look on his face. "But yes, we can give you the whole story - at least the bits that we know." Carefully, he described the situation to the worm aliens, with Sherlock butting in towards the end to finish the entire thing up. The aliens didn't interrupt throughout, paying cautious attention to the tale. Since they were worms, it was impossible to gauge their reaction, but the Doctor was optimistic.

"So, Moriarty disappeared somehow," Sherlock finished. "That is the piece we are unclear on. Would you happen to know anything about it?" A hint of a sneer twitched at his face, but before it could fully form the Doctor chimed in.

"Yes, any information would be helpful," he chirped, clapping his hands and smiling hopefully.

_We no nothing of any Moriarty._

"That's too bad, but not a problem! We can deal with it ourselves, even better now that this situation is out of the way."

_We are not finished, Doctor._ Despite the lack of audio, or any kind of text enhancement, the words were cold and biting, and the Doctor frowned.

"What's that supposed to mean? We told you the story, and it's all true, you know it is. What reason could you possibly have for hanging around?"

_We would request that you and the humans finish solving the case and bring this Moriarty to us. Then we will leave peacefully. But if you fail, we will take the humans and execute them without trial._

The Doctor stared in disbelief, and worked his chin. "What happened to going to the Shadow Proclaimation? You are supposed to be a peaceful race," he said, his voice nearing a dangerous growl. "What happened to you?"

_We suffered great losses in a recent war that we were not a part of, but some of our people's hosts were. You of all people should understand what effect death has on living creatures, Doctor. Since then, we have become less forgiving, and our defenses have been improved. If we must kill these humans to avenge the death of the Spirit involved in this case, we will. Revenge is all we have left._

"I'm sorry about your losses," the Time Lord said in a low voice. "But that is no excuse to kill innocents, not even in honor of your friend. I'm sure he wouldn't want this, to see you stoop so low. However, we want to see this finished as much as you do; so we will finish the case and bring you the results."

_This does not change our verdict, Doctor - we will capture and execute the humans if you do not succeed within the next day._

"Day?" John repeated, astonished, with boggling eyes. "You can't be serious."

"I think they are," Sherlock said, eyes narrowed as he turned to his blogger. "Do you doubt my abilities, John?"

"Even you can't finish a case in a _day,_ Sherlock, and especially not one like this," the army doctor protested.

"Shut up!" the Doctor ordered. "Do neither of you know how to negotiate? I am busy here!" Exasperated and full to the brim with tension, he returned his attention to the Spirits still awaiting his response. "Two days," he tried.

_One day is all you will recieve. 24 hours from now, you will report to us with your findings. If you have nothing of value-_

He stopped reading the text, waving a hand in dismissal. "You kill the humans, yeah, I got that bit. What about a day and a half? Do you honestly want to execute these two? Because I can't honestly believe that you do."

_Someone must pay for the death of the Spirit._

"Are you going to kill Moriarty, if you get ahold of him?" Sherlock asked, intrigue lighting his face.

_That is the intention._

"Nobody else is dying," the Doctor attempted to argue, but the screen turned black before he could finish. A far-too-familiar, uncontrollable frustration choked him, and he smacked the console as hard as he could. The TARDIS gave a low, uncertain whine. He could feel her waver of concern in his mind.

"So is that a day and a half, or still a day?" John inquired, after a moment's hesitation.

Rubbing his face roughly with both hands, the Doctor sighed. "I wouldn't take a chance; let's assume it's a day. We'll have to start immediately."

"Will they still be around the flat?" John went on, following the alien around the console as he moved to put in the coordinates for Earth. "And what was the buzzing noise, anyway? It had to be their ship, right?"

"Yes, they'll still be around," the Doctor replied, flicking some switches and moving for the take-off lever. "And yes, it was their ship. Invisible, probably hanging over the flat."

Apparently sensing the coming question - 'why didn't we just go up to them?' - Sherlock inserted himself into the conversation. "We most likely did not go into the ship because it is uninhabitable for air-breathing creatures, and we would want to escape from them if we had to."

"Exactly," the Doctor agreed, and gripped the lever. "Hold on." When he pulled it, the ship performed her usual shuddering and shaking routine, and moments later they were in the alley by the flat again. "Now, let's go visit the scene of the crime, shall we? Do you think there will be police about?"

"Can we stop inside the flat first?" John asked as all three of them bustled out the door with the Doctor leading the way, and Sherlock just behind him and John at the back. "I might want my heavier coat, actually."

The Doctor stifled a grumble, but slowed down as they neared 221B. "Hurry up." Sherlock followed the army doctor inside, and soon both had returned, having donned their respective coats, looking ready for an adventure.

Sherlock swiftly hailed a cab, and the two humans and the Time Lord piled inside. Sherlock gave the address, and the car spluttered into motion.

The Doctor, in the far left seat, turned his gaze out the window and watched the flat disappear with a familiar excitement and uncertainty gripping him.

He really did love these types of adventures.

* * *

**Sorry about the super long wait, guys. Between Christmas, my birthday, New Years, my big English project, and school starting again, I've been busy.**

**Fortunately, though, this is one of the longer chapters I've churned out, so there's that. It doesn't make up for the long wait, but it's something, so yeah.**

**I hope you all haven't been driven away. We've still got a bit to go, probably two or three more chapters. Lots of exciting things.**

**Also, I've decided to cut the Pendragon/Gone crossover out of the mix. It's a great idea, but I feel like if I wait too much longer to write The Crossover I'll lose steam, and it won't get written and all these fics will be for naught. Which would be disappointing for me, and for the people looking forward to it, however many or few of you there are.**

**Anyway, that just means the big one's coming sooner! And the Pendragon and Gone characters will still be included, but they just won't get their own crossover, due to lack of attention span and ideas. Sorry if anyone cared at all about that.**

**Oh, and I'm going to attempt to do a one-shot, preferably in the DW universe, but anything's possible, pretty much, as long as I'm in the fandom and think I can pull it off. So if you guys have any ideas, feel free to say something in the reviews; I'd appreciate it and who knows, your idea might get used, and it might actually be cool! So don't hesitate if you have something you feel like sharing. There aren't any garuntees that I'll use your idea if you give me it - more out of 'I don't think I can write this well' than anything, probably - but maybe you have something I can manage! XD**

**See you all soon, hopefully.**


	7. Chapter 7

**This one feels a bit rushed, and the explanations don't feel right to me, like they don't make sense or something, but I figured the best way to sort things would be to have you lot read it and see if you find any glaring mistakes, plot holes, or if you have trouble with how things have been explained. It'll be a pain to rewrite, but I'd rather things make sense, obviously. :/**

* * *

Minutes later, the trio arrived at Whitney Kyle's flat and stormed their way upstairs with Sherlock now leading. John once more took the back, glancing behind him every once and a while thanks to old military instinct.

The Doctor had whipped out a silver and bronze tool and was now waving it at the place where Moriarty's shoeprints had been marked with Scotch tape for all to see. The tool made a bleeping, whirring sound as the Doctor pointed it at the markings.

When he was finished, he brought the object up to his eyes as if examining it. "Sonic screwdriver," he explained in reply to John's unspoken question. "It's just a thing I carry around. I'll explain later." He put away the device and knelt to eye the prints.

"As you can see," Sherlock drawled, "there's no sign that he left the room at all. He couldn't have left out the window, or even traced his steps backwards; with the speed the landlady arrived, he wouldn't have been able to get away quickly, at least not with any accuracy."

The Doctor bobbed his head. "Enirely right. Obviously, he did disappear. As you said." He took out the sonic screwdriver again. "I couldn't get very accurate readings," he began, "but there seems to be an excess of vortex energy here." He gestured with the screwdriver at the room, still on his knees on the ground. He didn't seem inclined to move.

"Vortex energy?" John echoed. "What-"

"Maybe energy isn't the right word," the alien considered, "but I'm not bothered to come up with an alternative that would make more sense to you lot, so energy it is. Energy from the time vortex, that is."

"Time-"

"Wibbly-wobbly," the Doctor interrupted, to John's annoyance. "You'll see. Soon probably."

"Will we be able to locate Moriarty using this energy of yours?" Sherlock inquired, tall and imposing over the alien. The Doctor nodded at John, his expression saying, "See?" He stood and rubbed his eyes in thought.

"Possibly," he said, "but I'll need the TARDIS."

"Another trip?" John sighed.

"I'll just bring her 'round," the Doctor decided. "I'll only be a few minutes." With that, he dashed out the door.

John crossed to the window to watch the alien hail a cab and leave. Sherlock could be heard pacing the room behind him. Probably looking everything over once more. Double-checking. John couldn't blame him. Maybe aliens had come into the equation, yes, but a man couldn't just disappear into thin air. It wasn't possible.

A familiar wheezing and groaning erupted from the corner of the room, and the TARDIS slowly faded into view. It's sound filled the bedroom, much, much sooner than it had any right to.

"He just," John started, glancing out the window again. Their flat wasn't that close to this one, and the Doctor couldn't possibly have-

The door creaked open, interrupting his thoughts, and the Doctor poked his head out. "Come along, boys," he chirped, and ducked back into his ship. Without even a look at his blogger, Sherlock swept inside. John followed, after once more looking out into the street, unsure of what to think.

The interior of the ship was as bright as shocking as the first time - John wondered if he'd ever get used to it - with the Doctor again standing at the center console and tapping buttons. Sherlock had already started up the stairs to join him. John closed the doors behind himself and came up beside the two other men.

Once again, the consulting detective and his partner watched the monitor, while the Doctor clacked eagerly on the typewriter. Code appeared in complicated lines on the screen.

"Just inputting the information," the Doctor informed them while he worked. He poked at the keys like John did, with his two index fingers, his eyes trained on the keyboard. "Won't be a minute." He depressed a key with finality and turned his attention to the screen as well. The code continued, and then words in English finally appeared. "She'll also run a scan on the area for additional information," the alien added, pride riding heavily in his voice. John watched with amusment as he unconsciously rubbed the console. The man treated his ship like some treated their cars.

"How did you get here so fast?" John asked, leaning against the surface and staring into the alien's face.

The Doctor gave him a brief look, one of mischief and glee, and then turned back to the monitor. "Just saving time," he replied easily. He'd taken his sonic screwdriver out and was flipping it over and over in his hand now. "She's a time machine, too," he said before John could ask again. At the startled look that flashed over the army doctor's face, the alien beamed.

"Time travel is not scientifically possible," Sherlock put in, his eyes guarded. John knew him well enough to see the uncertainty in their depths, though, and he had to hide a smirk.

"For humans," the Doctor said, "but as you know," he gestured at the ship, "I'm not human. My people perfected time travel centuries before I was born, and I stole this TARDIS and ran off." Affectionately, he patted the console. "We mastered control of the time vortex, and were able to travel anywhere, anywhen we desired." Wistfulness cross his face for a moment, then it was gone. "That's that, though - all done. Maybe I'll take you two on a trip, when we're done here."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed fractionally. "Where?" he asked. Even John found himself unable to decipher the tone his friend's voice had taken on. Not hostile, not fearful, but not hopeful or happy either.

The Doctor spread his arms, a brilliant smile stretching his face wide. "Anywhere."

Before Sherlock could make another move, a beep came from the console, and the Doctor turned away, suddenly all business again. Something glowingly happy lingered in his eyes, though, as he spoke next. "Ah, vortex energy, yes."

"Energy from the time vortex," John repeated, recalling the alien's earlier words. "Which you said your people mastered." It still felt weird to talk about aliens so casually, but he did so out of necessity. There would be time to freak out more about it than he already had later, when all of this was done. "So it's time travel energy? Moriarty traveled in time?"

The Doctor continued to examine the screen. "Seems so. Also, there appears to be some void stuff hanging about...don't think that's where he ended up, though."

Flabbergasted, John blurted, "What's void stuff? And how would he have travelled in time, anyway? Did another one of your people come here recently? Could he have stolen a ship?"

"No," the Doctor said. A tightness traced his voice that reminded John of when the man had sat in the doorway of his ship with his head in his hands. He knew from experience what that voice meant, from many times reliving his war-zone experiences with his therapists; he'd often spoken in it himself. Unpleasant memories were on the verge of overcoming the alien, and he was pushing them back. "That's not it. He was just...swallowed."

"Is the vortex known for doing this?" Sherlock asked. He too was staring up at the screen. John watched the two men instead of the monitor; their faces were bathed ever so slightly in the white light from the screen. Their eyes glimmered with it. The moment, despite the tense air surrounding the men, was strangely peaceful. Something in John started to ache, ever so slightly, and he knew something was about to go wrong.

That feeling of peace only came before a disaster.

"No," the Doctor said. "Never." He never took his eyes from the monitor. "There's a crack almost - there's one in Cardiff, where I refuel the TARDIS, but this is a little different. It's not leading to the same place, first of all, and it feels..." he paused. "Wrong."

"Wrong how?" John asked. His heart had jumped into his throat.

"I can," the Doctor started, and then broke off. Then, "Imagine going to a different country. No matter how much you love to travel, there's something different in the air that might put you off, sometimes, ever so slightly."

"And that's it?" John prompted. "That's the feeling?"

"No, but it'll do for now." The alien rubbed his cheek. His brow furrowed. "The question is - how? The vortex had to be manipulated somehow, but there's no species I know of that can do that - certainly not one that can do it from far enough away that the TARDIS can't detect it. Let alone the void, which has to be involved, since I found void stuff. And then, why Moriarty? If there was a creature using the vortex to upduct people, why Moriarty of all the people on this planet?"

"Maybe they wanted insane criminals?" John suggested dryly, despite the way his heart was now jumping.

The Doctor smirked, but he seemed bothered by the idea. "Maybe," he said. John's stomach turned at the unexpected weight in the statement. It definitely didn't sound like a joke.

Sherlock was obviously as worried as John, as he spoke up once more. "Doctor," he prodded.

The alien moved his rubbing hand over his eyes. "I had a run-in," he started carefully, "a short while ago, with some - not friends, at least not at that moment...but I was hinted to by a somewhat reliable source that an old enemy of mine was returning. He's a good deal like Moriarty, actually, which is...concerning." He removed his hand from his face and leaned heavily on the console. "And I've been catapulted, if you will, into this universe." Then he frowned.

"What do you mean, this universe?" John demanded, startled. "There's not-" he cut himself off at the Doctor's expression. Even Sherlock seemed unsure.

"I'm from another universe," the alien admitted. "It's very similar to this one, except that there, you two don't exist."

John felt his mouth from an 'o' of surprise, before he was able to force his expression into a more even one. "And here, you don't," he said.

The Doctor nodded. "It's happened before," he continued. "A companion of mine and I found ourselves in another universe. Despite the fact that it was similar, it was also very different. A parallel universe, of sorts. It had the same air as what's coming from the crack - not quite right. All different universes do. But I'm rambling - perhaps here, there is a being among us that can use the time vortex and the void to swallow people up, but transporting them elsewhere without doing harm to them - which is what I'm assuming they'd want to do - would be nearly impossible. Time travel without a capsule is nasty, and dangerous. And going through the void at all, capsule or no, is asking for death." He covered his eyes again, blocking himself off from the outside.

Sherlock slowly paced around the console, that familiar look of thoughtfulness on his face. John was still a bit confused, but decided not to ask more questions. "If they could manipulate the vortex," he began, "couldn't they make it so that their passenger remained unharmed?"

"Possibly," the Doctor sighed, letting his hand drop again. He turned to face away from the monitor now, staring into the otherworldly bright walls of the TARDIS. "But it would be difficult anyway. I know the vortex like I know the TARDIS." He cut himself off, looking embarrassed and flustered. "Maybe not the TARDIS, then, there are thousands of rooms I haven't ever seen, I'm sure." He frowned, in search of a better simile. "I know it decently well, anyway. And it's vicious, and hard to navigate even with the TARDIS, who was made for travel through it. And the void - it would be nearly impossible to control _that_."

John decided to ignore the "who" remark regarding the ship, and plowed on. His heart hadn't settled yet, so he knew the danger hadn't passed. It hadn't even arrived, but it was close. He gave up on his resolution to not ask questions. "You didn't answer my earlier question, though. What's void stuff?"

The Doctor looked to him and gestured as he explained. "The void is a space between universes," he said. "There's absolutely nothing there - it's nothingness, as good as death. It leaves residue behind, little bits of it, if it ever opens, or if someone goes through it. That's void stuff."

"And Moriarty did that? He went through it?"

"Yes. But if I could taste the air while we were in the room..." he trailed off. "It can't be as far away as it's supposed to be. I would even say that the vortex and the void are both still opened slightly, right there. I expect they should be closing, though."

"Do you think we could trace him?"

The Doctor's frown deepened as he went back to the monitor and typewriter, stabbing at the keys. "Possibly. We should have done this earlier; even if the vortex is open, the energy is still able to deplete." The frown turned into a confused look as the alien consulted the screen. "No, hang on...it's stronger? That's not possible." He abandoned his work and fled to the doors, with Sherlock and John close behind. The three emerged into the flat and the Doctor scanned the room again, having once more produced his sonic tool.

"If the energy is strengthening," Sherlock began in his customary pompous tone, "the vortex is opening wider again." The Doctor froze, and stared at him. "It's logic, very obvious."

The alien smacked himself in the forehead with the screwdriver. "Of course. I'm thick." Muttering to himself, presumably about his thickness, he headed back to the console.

"What are you doing now?" John asked. He was getting tired of popping in and out of the ship, which paired with his uneasiness was making him snappish.

"Contacting our Spirit friends," the Doctor said. "We're going to have to go in to find him." He rubbed his forehead. John guessed the screwdriver had hurt more than a little bit.

"You're suggesting we go into an unknown area to retrieve an enemy of ours?" Sherlock scoffed. "Nonsense."

"Nonsense is right," the Doctor agreed, "of course we're not doing that. I'm going to try and convince the Spirits to let you pair go on with your business. Moriarty is probably dead anyway. That should make them happy."

"So we didn't need the full day after all," John said, making his way back up to the console with Sherlock by his side, but he knew that it wasn't over. Not at all.

The Doctor sighed. "Hopefully not," he mumbled. And then, "Hello there, you lot!"

_Have you found Moriarty, Doctor?_

"Sort of."

_Clarify._

"We know what happened to him, at any rate," the Doctor said. "We aren't sure if he's dead, but it's likely. We found vortex energy and void stuff here - he's probably been taken into the vortex, and then the void opened within it, and he was swallowed up. He's most likely in a different universe, or trapped in the void. Either way, he's as good as dead." It may have been John's imagination, but the alien almost sounded sorry.

The words seemed cold and angry on the screen. _We would like to make sure he is punished. If you cannot show him to us, his body or his live self, your mission was not a success. We know you, Doctor - you are not one to give up. Why would you do so now?_

"You expect us to cross into another univ- wait, hold on." Suddenly, he looked horrified, and very suspiscious. "I've missed something important. All this time I've missed it." He pointed at the screen. "I don't exist in this universe - there's no alternate version of me whatsoever. But you've heard of me. You said you knew me."

There was no reply. John's stomach was starting to ache slightly.

"That's not possible, unless you came from the same universe I did." He slapped a palm to his face. "I'd almost forgotten this was a different universe," he growled. "How did that happen?" He let his hand fall. "And how did you get here, too?"

"I thought you said the air was different, and you could tell," John said.

"Yes, exactly, I should never have forgotten at all." The Doctor scowled.

_We are of this universe, Doctor. You are mistaken._

The alien started pressing buttons. "I'm scanning your ship," he told them sharply. "If you're lying to me, I'll...know..." he trailed off and stared at the monitor, where the results of the scan had appeared in a box in the corner. "That's impossible," he breathed.

_We would not mislead you. We are an honest people._

"When did you hear of me?" the Doctor demanded, his voice as cold as it had been at the flat, when he'd caught John and Sherlock spying on him. Horror was mixed in now, though, freezing it even further.

_Only recently, when our war had ended. We looked for you for a year, in search of help. You were said to offer assistance. When we could not locate you, we stopped searching._

"Who told you about me?"

_No one. Your existence was bled into our minds. One day you were unheard of, the next everyone knew you._

"Bled into your minds," the Doctor puzzled. "The Spirits of my universe know me, and treat me the same as you do, the few times I've met them. Except for our first encounter - then they were a bit nicer to me. If most of you lot are the same creatures as the Spirits I know, then when you met me the first time you would have been warmer. But no, you were not. So you've inherited experiences of me."

_We cannot recall past encounters with you._

"No, you wouldn't, necessarily. But the things the others feel toward me, and the things they knew _bled_ into you." His voice had turned hard, but it was also somewhat distant as he thought. John glanced to Sherlock to gauge the other man's reaction. His friend's face was smooth; the only betrayal of excitement was in his eyes.

"The universes are touching," the alien whispered. "The void and the vortex are both open wide, and they're touching. That's why the air doesn't taste different. That's why you know me; things are slipping through. That's why Moriarty was swallowed - whatever manipulated the vortex and the void to take him only could because the universes are brushing each other. Probably not just this one and the one Moriarty's in and mine; several. Maybe hundreds."

"Hundreds of universes?" John blurted. He knew, now. This was the thing he'd been feeling. Almost, so close, looming over them like a cloud.

_If Moriarty has been taken to another universe, it is your responsibility to retrive him._

"You can't be serious," the Doctor shouted, gesturing wildly, his eyes wide with alarm. "Universes are touching in a disasterous way - this whole planet, this whole universe - could be swallowed into another, and you want us to go off to get revenge? You have to be kidding me." He was practically spitting.

_We will execute the humans if you cannot bring Moriarty to us._

The Doctor angrily switched the monitor off and hurtled around the console, pressing buttons at high speeds while his companions watched, Sherlock cool and aloof, John with vague concern.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "We're not going to _listen_ to them, are we?"

"No, of course not. They're mad if they think we're just going to jump right in. We could all be killed anyway, whether we used the TARDIS or not."

"So we're just going to be executed?" John inquired. There were a couple of built-in chairs in the area around the console, so he took the one nearest the monitor - and Sherlock - to watch the proceedings. Sherlock remained standing.

"Don't be stupid, of course you won't. You think I would allow that?" The Doctor paused to stare at John a moment before continuing. "No, I wouldn't."

"Then what do you propose we do, Doctor?" Sherlock asked icily, clasping his hands behind his back and eying the alien. "Sit and twidle our thumbs and hope Moriarty decides to make a return trip?"

The Doctor gave him a passing glare as he worked. "I'm trying to trace him," he said. "If we can find him, we can attempt to pick him up and bring him back. If not, we'll have to go looking on-foot, or run and hide from our Spirit friends for an eternity."

"I'd rather just trace him, thanks," John put in.

"I'm working on it," the Doctor muttered.

Sherlock swept over to the currently unoccupied monitor and turned it on again. The picture of the Heart Spirits had disappeared, and had been replaced by two boxes of scrolling words. Sherlock's eyes skimmed over them. "The amount of vortex energy appears to be growing," he told the room. The Doctor bolted over to join him, and John had to stand on his toes to see anything.

The alien's eyes narrowed. "Too soon," he grumbled, "we'll be sucked in. It's opening wider than before." He dashed to the doors with the two humans behind him.

He threw the doors open, and then promptly collapsed.

* * *

**As usual, I'd ask that you please read and review. I need to know if I've done this chapter wrong, guys! It's bugging me like crazy, so _please_ let me know. I'm begging you.**

**I can't write the next chapter, which will be the last one, actually, until I know I've done this right, and it's readable and understandable. Thank you.**

**Also, in case I haven't informed you all before (I thought I had, but maybe not), this is going to turn into a multi-fandom story. If any of you have read the other stories in this series, you'll have guessed that already, but if there are any of you that haven't...yeah.**

**I appreciate all of your support. Reviews help, please! :)**


	8. Chapter 8

"Doctor!" John shouted, narrowly missing the alien's arm as he reached out to catch him. Sherlock had likewise lunged forward, but had been quick enough to grasp the Doctor by the jacket and pull him up to his knees. The alien didn't make a sound, but he clutched at his head and his weight strained against Sherlock's grip. He didn't make an effort to lean back.

Before John could bend down and help, he was struck by how much brighter the room seemed; it was almost like the single light overhead had been turned white. John glanced up just to make sure; the glow of the ceiling installment was still dim and yellow, almost eclipsed by the other light.

"Is this the vortex?" Sherlock asked, echoing his thoughts. John glanced at his friend. The man's eyes were narrowed and his lips thin.

"More the void," the Doctor rasped, reviving some at the question. He struggled away from Sherlock's grip and sat on the floor, still nursing his head. His eyes were foggy, and his face twisted. John's doctor's instinct sent him to the floor beside the alien to inspect him more closely.

"What's wrong?" the army doctor implored.

"There's not just one universe nearby," the Doctor said. "It's many. At the most, I've been exposed to two at once. It's sort of overwhelming. Also, the vortex and the void being opened at the same time make for a _bad_ headache." He flinched.

"Why aren't we being affected?"

"Humans aren't sensitive to this kind of energy. The vortex might give you a bit of a headache, and the void might weaken you, but it won't be as-" he stopped abruptly, and had to take several breaths before continuing. "It won't be as painful."

"And that's all we have to worry about?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows, disbelieving.

"No. The vortex can turn a human's - or even a Time Lord, like myself's - mind to mush if exposure...continues for too long." The Doctor winced, in the middle of attempting a joking smile.

John's stomach turned. "How long is too long?"

"Ten minutes? Five?"

Sherlock's face set in a terribly familiar fashion, and he straightened. "Get him inside the TARDIS," he ordered John.

"Sherlock," the army doctor tried, even as he helped the Doctor to his shaky feet.

"What do you think you're doing?" the alien protested in Sherlock's direction. "You're coming with us; you'll be safe in the TARDIS."

The consulting detective's eyes glinted. "I'm going to find Moriarty," he declared, smoothly, as if he wasn't proposing a deadly plan.

"No," John said firmly, "you're not. Come inside." He half-dragged the Doctor to his ship, met with little resistence from the weak alien.

"I intend to finish this case," Sherlock said.

"This isn't finishing the case, this is insanity," John argued, depositing the Doctor in the TARDIS' doorway and stepping towards his partner. He gripped Sherlock's lower arm. "We can do this some other way."

"I'm not going to sit around and do nothing," the detective spat. He tried to pry John's arm off, but the smaller man refused to budge. "Which was _your_ idea of a good idea, if you remember."

"I'm not going to let you do this. You can't leave me here." A headache was beginning to sprout into existence, further encouraging John's rising panic. "Sherlock, come in right now."

"We don't have an abundance of time, you know," the Doctor called from his ship. "Any minute now, your brains could be leaking our your ears."

John ignored him. "You're not going, and that's that."

"Come with me, then, if you're so intent on keeping me safe," Sherlock snapped, still trying to rip John away. The light reflected off of his eyes, making them abnormally bright.

"This is suicide!" John shouted. His heart had decided to once more clog his breathing passage, and each intake of breath was painful. He became aware that the light was growing, steadily and faster every moment. Fear stole any other words he might have spoken. Not so much that he would die, but that Sherlock would, if John left him. His best friend would vanish and leave him to live a boring life by himself.

"Maybe not," Sherlock said. The dangerous note to his voice that had drawn John with him on that first case had joined his words. It almost made the idea appealing.

A slightly trembling hand deposited itself on John's shoulder, and, with more strength than it had any right to have, began to pull him and Sherlock toward the TARDIS. The ship's orange glow, warm and enticing, was being eclipsed by the white light consuming everything else in their vision.

"_Go,_" the Doctor half-whimpered, the hand that had been holding John reaching to touch the doors, pushing John into Sherlock and almost toppling all three of them-

The doors slammed shut on them just as the Doctor made contact.

The light cast everything into white and shadows, and then there was nothing but light. The last thing John saw before his vision turned white, and then to the black of unconsciousness, was Sherlock's startled, but determined face as he fought against the Doctor. The alien's hand was clutching, white-knuckled, on Sherlock's side, the brown of his coat almost mingling with the black of Sherlock's in the impossible light.

The Doctor gave a muffled, "_No,_" sounding like he was coming from far away and underwater, and then there was a terrifying, stifling silence, and everything was dark.

* * *

John's eyes opened to sunlight. His cheek was pressed to cool green grass, and his headache from before, that he'd amounted to his brains being slowly transformed into goo, had worsened. He guessed it wasn't that, now; despite the pain, he didn't feel like he was dying, not like he had standing there in the light, clutching Sherlock's arm and trying to convince him to leave.

Sherlock...was on the other side of the crumpled form of the Doctor, his face turned toward John. His brow was furrowed and his eyes sharp.

John breathed a silent sigh of relief-

And became aware of a body on his other side, ever so slightly touching him. John wanted to turn and look, but he found himself without the energy. Before he could summon it, the touch receded. He became distracted, then, and didn't make it to turn his head around, having fully registered the Doctor's abnormal stillness. Although John knew he couldn't expect the alien to make any quick movements, he'd at least expected him to make some kind of move - twitch his fingers or something.

Panic took hold; not the panic of a looming disaster, but rather that of a doctor concerned for his patient. Heart pounding, John managed to get out, in a tiny, almost inaudible rasp, "Doctor?" as he got sluggishly to his knees.

Sherlock met his eyes and, seeing the worry there, mouthed, "He's breathing," looking typically annoyed. His expression was normal enough to force John to relax. The consulting detective turned himself over slowly, and sat up. His eyes flitted around. John wanted to inspect their surroundings as well, but his first concern was the alien between himself and his friend.

He turned the Doctor over, and was relieved to see that he did seem to be breathing normally. And as John watched, his eyes opened.

"Not dead," he breathed. "That's good." His voice was still pained, but it was probably just the headache.

Before John could allow the chuckle in his throat to escape, an accented voice spoke up, "-but please be patient. You will get answers soon."

The army doctor twisted around to sit properly and to get a glimpse of their situation. He expected it wouldn't dangerous, considering that they hadn't been shot at yet, and there wasn't any shouting or screaming, but you could never be sure.

To his relief, everything seemed relatively peaceful. They were outside, in the sun, surrounded by greens of all kinds...him, Sherlock, the Doctor...and at least twenty other people, positioned in a circle around the suited youth talking.

"My name is Artemis Fowl," he said, and followed it with a short pause in which all John could hear was breathing all around him, and his own heart hammering away. "Welcome."

"What. The. Hell," someone said.

Someone else let out an uncertain, borderline hysterical, giggle somewhere to John's right.

The army doctor glanced at Sherlock, who stared right back, his eyes alight with curiosity.

The Doctor sat up, slowly and painfully, between them. "Wonderful plan of yours," he remarked, "hanging about outside."

Sherlock smirked.

* * *

**Thank you for reading, everyone. I know there aren't very many of you, but even a few readers means so much. I've had a blast writing this story and hearing your opinions on it. I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have. If you could, please review this chapter and, if you haven't yet, please read my other stories, especially the two stories before this one, Only the Beginning, and Not Another Apocalypse.**

**Again, I appreciate all of your support. :)**

**This series will be continued, and concluded, in The Crossover.**

**The release date is unknown; I still have so much to get together. At the least, it will be a week. At the most, a month or two. If you'd like more information on The Crossover, see my profile, the last chapter of the currently published, discontinued one, or PM me. I'll be happy to tell you what I can without spoiling everything. :)**

**-hiholly123**


End file.
